"By Jove!" cried Jack Randolph, after which he again relapsed into silence.
"See here, Macrorie," said he, at length.
"I have it."
"What?"
"Go round next Sunday to all the churches."
"What's the use of that?"
"Go round to the churches," repeated Jack, "scan every bonnet—and then, if you don't see her, why then, why—go to the photographic saloons. You'll be sure to find her picture there. By Jove! Why, Macrorie, the game's all in your own hands. These photographic saloons are better than a whole force of detective police. There's your chance, old man. You'll find her. Do that, and you're all right. Oh, yes—you'll find her, as sure as my name's Jack Randolph."
"No go, Jack," said I. "You see I couldn't recognize her even if I were to see her."
"Couldn't what?"
"Couldn't recognize her."