"My clue is not as clear as you may think, still I have something to work on. I know the woman's name."
"The girl, you mean?"
"No, the woman; you forget that forty years have passed."
"You are right, I did forget. Well, how time flies! Now that the mystery is solved, it seems to me as though the incident had occurred only a few months ago."
On the day following the incidents recorded Jack visited New Jersey, the land which had been so fruitful in furnishing him incidents tending to a solution of the mystery. While on the train he meditated over his great success and felt proud over his wonderful "shadow"—for indeed it had proved a wonderful "shadow." He appreciated, however, that almost as difficult a task lay before him. The letter had said the child had been placed with strangers, and singularly the old man had failed to state with whom or where he left the child. He had evidently intended to do so, but through some oversight had omitted giving the information. Jack did have one advantage—he knew the real name and possibly the assumed name of the woman he was searching for, but he did not know what her present name might be in case she was living. He was working entirely on conjecture. He concluded that Jake had placed the child somewhere near his home, where he might find her at any time if he desired to communicate with her.
Jack left the train on the Central Railroad of New Jersey and started out by visiting from house to house. He determined to visit every town from Jersey City to Lakewood, and he started in at one of the oldest towns and then commenced his search again. He started in by looking in the face of every woman he met, and he also went from house to house, pretending to be acting as agent for a monthly publication. He had the picture of Amalie, and believed that with his marvelous keenness he could detect a resemblance even though forty years had passed since the picture had been taken. He in this way spent one whole week, and believed he had seen the face of every woman in the town, but not one face presented any suggestion of a resemblance. With the different women he started in with a little line of conversation; he introduced the name of Stevens and Canfield, and he would say: "Why, let me see, isn't this the town where the little girl was brought up from the beach and left with strangers to secure a fortune to her?"
The above was only one of the many ingenious questions the detective asked in order to quicken some one's memory, or start a line of thought that would recall the circumstance of a little orphan child having been left in charge of some one. He had one disadvantage to contend with—the length of time that had elapsed; but he was hopeful that he might in this way run upon Amalie Stevens in person. He recognized that the chances were the girl had continued to live in the town where Jake had placed her, and it was equally possible that she might have married some one in the town and have settled down and lived there for life. We wish space would permit the recital of the many odd and novel little inventions of the detective to gain a clue, but all his devices failed. He did not become discouraged; he kept muttering: "I'll get there in time."
There was one chance against him, and that chance he most feared. It was possible Amalie Stevens had died while a child; if so there remained little hope of his ever solving the mystery, at least little hope of ever seeing an heir to the great fortune, for failing to find Amalie there was no other heir. The great fortune under the terms of the letter would lapse to Mr. Townsend. Jake Canfield had calculated the possibilities of the child's death, and had said that the father had named no other heir, and had directed that in case of Jake's death he was to have the money—-one-half for himself and one-half to be distributed in charity. Jake, calculating upon his own death, had made the same provision, and in case the child Amalie died, and Jake also, Mr. Townsend was to carry out the original terms of the trust—distribute one-half in charity and keep one-half for himself.
We here desire to call attention to the fact that at this time there were at least two honest men on earth, Mr. Townsend and Jack, and both were making every effort to find the real owner of the estate, while both would benefit in case of failure, for Mr. Townsend had told our hero that in case the heiress was not found, or any other legal claimant, he would transfer the interest in the estate to Jack, remarking: "I have enough of my own, and you deserve it in case there is no other heir discovered."
With this possibility staring him the face, Jack was bending every energy to find the original heir, and was prosecuting his search with a skill and acuteness that well warranted success, and in his investigation he ran up against a very singular experience. Several robberies had taken place in the section of the country where Jack was conducting his investigation, and when he had been about three weeks thus engaged his adventure occurred. The detective was stopping at a little country hotel, and he had worked several disguises. He was cute enough to know that his work would in time attract attention, and that he was liable to considerable annoyance, so as stated, he changed his attire, his general appearance, and his pretended business. One day he was a book agent; the next day, under a different disguise, he was a sewing machine canvasser, and so he floated from one business to another; but despite his care and shrewdness, as it appeared, he did attract attention, and one night while in his room in the hotel indicated a country-looking chap knocked at his door and was admitted. The visitor was a green-looking fellow, and upon entering said: