'No--most likely it was Joe Harris.' 'Will you send for him, if you please.' Joe Harris came. 'You waited on Mr. Hawes a few days ago, when he dined with another gentleman in a private room up stairs, didn't you?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Who was that other man?' 'He is a young man who is clerk in a livery stable in Sullivan street.' 'What are his looks?' 'He is tall and light haired.' 'Do you know his name?' 'His name is Edgar.' I hurried up to Sullivan street, went into the first livery stable I came to, inquired for the proprietor, and asked him if he had a young man in his stable of the name of Edgar. He said he had. 'Does he keep your books?' 'Yes, he takes orders for me.' 'Let me see some of his handwriting, if you please.' He stepped back into the office and took from a desk a little order book. I opened it: there were some orders, hastily written, no doubt, but in a hand almost like beautiful copperplate. This was my man--I felt nearly certain of it. I asked where he lived, and was told, with his mother, a widow woman, at such a number in Hudson street. I started for the place. It was now nine o'clock. Arriving at the house, I rang the bell. It was answered by a servant girl. 'Does Mr. Edgar live here?' I inquired. 'Yes, sir.' 'Is he at home?' 'No, sir.' 'When will he come home?' 'I don't know.' 'Does he sleep here?' 'Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn't.' 'Where is he likely to be found? I should like to see him.' She said she really didn't know, unless perhaps he might be at a billiard saloon not far off. I went there. A noisy crowd was around the bar. I looked around the room and closely scrutinized every face. No tall, light-haired young man was there. I asked the barkeeper if Mr. Edgar had been there that evening. He said no, he had not seen anything of him for two or three days, I asked him if there was any other place he knew of that Edgar frequented, and was told he went a good deal to a bowling alley in West Broadway near Duane street. Not much yet, I thought, as I hurried on to West Broadway. Descending a few steps into a basement, I entered a sort of vestibule or office to the bowling saloon. 'Has Mr. Edgar been here this evening?' I inquired of the man in attendance. 'He is here now,' was the reply, 'in the other room, through that door.' I passed through the door indicated into the bowling alley, and accosted the marker: 'Is Mr. Edgar here?' 'He has just gone--fifteen minutes ago.' 'Do you know where he went to?' 'Seems to me some of them said something about going to the Lafayette Theatre.' I am on his track now--I said to myself--only fifteen minutes behind him. I bent my steps to the theatre--taking with, me a comrade in the police service, whom I had encountered as I was leaving the saloon. We hurried on with the utmost rapidity, but on reaching the theatre, found, to my disgust, what I had already feared, that the play was over, and the theatre just closed.