'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?'