The two men sat on a bench in a more or less secluded part of Bronx Park. Mr. Neal looked off among the trees as he told the story of the face hesitatingly, often in difficulty for the right word, the light of the mystic in his glowing eyes. The chief clerk listened attentively, his cane across his knees, his lean face serious. His eyes bored into the very mind of his friend with their keen gaze. When Mr. Neal told of his failure to find the man with the good face in the house on Third Avenue, his friend shook his head definitely. "No!" he said. "No! I'll tell you what it is: it is what they call a hallucination." "Oh, no," replied Mr. Neal calmly. "It is real, John. There's no doubt it's real." The chief clerk shook his head sharply again, and there was a pause. "I felt I must tell you," resumed Mr. Neal at length, "because I saw him again last night." His friend looked quickly at the little clerk, who gazed away among the trees, his eyes luminous. "I saw him in the Pennsylvania subway station, and I followed him out. There was no doubt about it: I saw his face. He went down Eighth Avenue, and I saw him turn in at a door. I wasn't far behind him. The door was right next to a pawnshop. It was unlatched, and I went in. I found myself in a dark hallway, but toward the other end there was light coming from a half opened door. I was excited, John. Tremendously. You see, John, it was the great experience of my life--no wonder I was trembling. "I stepped quietly back to where the light was, and looked into the room that it came from. What do you think I saw, John? There was a young mother and two fresh-cheeked boys; one of the boys was reading at the table, and the other one sat in a low chair at his mother's knee and she was talking to him--telling him stories, I think. The room was poor, John, but the mother's face! It was wonderful! It reminded me of my own mother's. There is just one word to describe it, John: it was a Madonna's face--a Madonna of Eighth Avenue!" Mr. Neal paused and glanced at his friend. The chief clerk said nothing, but dug at the turf with his stick. "But the tall man was not there," resumed Mr. Neal. "I knocked at the door and asked about him. The woman didn't know; no man was in their rooms, she said. She was a poor widow. She wanted to know how I got in. I could see I was frightening her, so I left, and I could hear the door locked behind me." The little clerk sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes. His friend rose suddenly. "Come," he said. "Let's walk--and talk about something else." This was but the first of many talks the two clerks had about the face. Mr. Neal's friend became more and more sympathetic toward the quest. One afternoon Mr. Neal detained the chief clerk as he was leaving the office after work. The little clerk's eyes were very serious, and his voice was low as he said: "John, I know that I am going to find him very soon. I know it."