"_I_ don't think that you young gentlemen are cut out for a newspaper career, but _you_ do, and others higher up say to let you try it. So you're going in to find at least one of those four men, dead or alive. The police haven't been able to find them, but you will, of course. The game-wardens, fire-wardens, guides, constables, farmers, lumbermen, sheriffs, can't discover hair or hide of them; but no doubt you can. The wild and dismal state forest is now full of detectives, amateur and professional; it's full of hotel keepers, trout fishermen, and private camps which are provided with elevators, electric light, squash courts, modern plumbing, and footmen in knee-breeches; and all of these dinky ginks are hunting for four young and wealthy men who have, at regular intervals of one week each, suddenly and completely disappeared from the face of nature and the awful solitudes of the Adirondacks. I take it for granted that you have the necessary data concerning their several and respective vanishings?" "Yes, sir," said Langdon, who was becoming redder and redder under the bland flow of the Desk's irony. "Suppose you run over the main points before you dash recklessly out into the woods via Broadway." "William," said Langdon with boyish dignity, "would you be kind enough to run over your notes for Mr. Trinkle?" "It will afford me much pleasure to do so," replied Sayre, also very red and dignified. Out of his pocket he drew what appeared to be an attenuated ham sandwich. Opening it with a slight smile of triumph, as Mr. Trinkle's eyes protruded, he turned a page of fish-wafer paper and read aloud the pencilled memoranda: "May 1st, 1910. "Reginald Willett, a wealthy amateur, author of _Rough Life Photography_, _Snapshots at Trees_, _Hunting the Wild Bat with the Camera_, etc., etc., left his summer camp on the Gilded Dome, taking with him his kodak for the purpose of securing photographs of the wilder flowers of the wilderness. "He never returned. His butler and second man discovered his camera in the trail. "No other trace of him has yet been discovered. He was young, well built, handsome, and in excellent physical condition." Sayre turned the page outward so that Mr. Trinkle could see it. "Here's his photograph," he said, "and his dimensions." Mr. Trinkle nodded: "Go on," he said; and Sayre resumed, turning the page: "May 8th: James Carrick, a minor poet, young, well built, handsome, and in excellent physical condition, disappeared from a boat on Dingman's Pond. The boat was found. It contained a note-book in which was neatly written the following graceful poem: "While gliding o'er thy fair expanse And gazing at the shore beyond, What simple joys the soul entrance Evoked by rowing on Dingman's Pond. The joy I here have found shall be Dear to my heart till life forsake, And often shall I think of thee, Thou mildly beauteous Dingman's Lake." "Stop!" said Mr. Trinkle, infuriated. Sayre looked up.