A noble cause for such an act of unconscious cerebration you will say, a freshly washed pavement: _Le jeu ne faut pas la chandelle._ And so I thought too, or would have thought if I had not been so interested in the pursuit in which I was engaged, and if the idea had not suggested itself that water and a broom might obliterate chalk-marks from curbstones, and that the imps that preside over our mental forces would not indulge in such a trick at my expense unless the play _was_ worth the candle. At all events, from the moment I made this discovery, I fixed my faith on that house as the one which held the object of my search, and though I contented myself with merely noting the number of the street as we left it, I none the less determined to pursue my investigations, till I had learned beyond the possibility of a doubt whether my conjectures were not true. A perseverance worthy of a better cause you will say, but you are no longer twenty-five and under the influence of your first passion. I own I was astonished at myself and frequently paused in the pursuit I had undertaken, to ask if I were the same person who but a fortnight before laughed at the story of a man who had gone mad over the body of an unknown woman he had saved from a wreck only to find her dead in his arms. The first thing I did was to ascertain the name of the gentleman occupying the house I have specified. It was that of one of our wealthiest and most respectable bankers, a name as well known in the city—as your own for instance. This was somewhat disconcerting, but with a dogged resolution somewhat foreign to my natural disposition, I persevered in my investigations, and learning in the next breath that the gentleman alluded to was a widower with an only child, a young daughter of about sixteen or so, recovered my assurance, though not my equanimity. Seeking out my friend Farrar, who as you know is a walking gazette of New York society, I broached the subject of Mr.—excuse me if I do not mention his name; allow me to say, Preston’s domestic affairs, and learned that Miss Preston, “A naive little piece for so great an heiress,” I remember Farrar called her, had left town within a day or two for a visit to some friends in Baltimore. “I happen to know,” said he with that careless sweep of his hand at which you have so often laughed, “because my friend Miss Forsyth met her at the depot. She was intending to be gone—two weeks, I think she said. Do you know her?” That last question sprung upon me unawares, and I am afraid I blushed. “No,” I returned, “I have not that honor but an acquaintance of mine has—well—has met her and—”