The Princeton union., 1900-02-22

s.l.'sils S Quest from my mind. Sc
ser1esstly, knew better. Fora week |
kept away from the neighborhood Of
the library. Then one day 4 really had
occasion to consult book t hat I knew
was wa there and nowhere else; so re-
solved to go. Surely had the right to
do SO, and it would be idiotic to allow q
morbid memory to interfere with my
business or even my pleasure. So /
went. 1t was just before the noon hour.
There She sat as usual, her eyes fastened
upon her work. When the bell rang a
greasy-looking chap in green goggles
and with sickly grin carried her books
to the desk for her; and she thanked
him with a smile.
probably she was a good deal of
hlrt.> And probably was not the only
young man whose acquaintance she had
made IN the street. l got away before
she saw me. Another week passed.
Life had lost it's SAVIOR. It was of no
use trying to deceive myself. Perhaps
the best thing to do was to take ND my
detective business again. 1 had made
so brilliant success Of it already! But
that was the only avenue towards a
reconciliation. She would forgive me
when | found the thief of "Daisy's
quest But where should l begin? It
looked hopeless, and it might take
months-or years. Meantime that
greasy fellow in the green goggles
would be making headway; slowly, per-
haps, but the turtle got there in the end
Suppose I did take up 'Daisy's
ouest"again and gave all my spare time
and money to the enterprise, what were
my chances OF accomplishing anything?
II gave years to it, Miss Robertson
might at least give me credit for devo-
ton to the cause; might, and probably
would, grow thin and haggard-that
might touch her. But, again, might
devote no end Of time and money to the
case, and Miss Robertson be no wiser
and no better for it i'm the end. still
had her umbrella; that was some COM
fort. If could only take it back to her
l should be willing to undergo some of
the choicest tortures of the Spanish In
,quisition. The more pondered the less
light saw ahead of me.
L was at the lowest ebb of courage and
hope, and seriously thought of boldly
calling at Miss Robertson's house to re-
turn that umbrella, for life of the kind
[ led was not worth living, when some
thing occurred. Upon getting home to
dinner one night I found dirty scrap
OF paper with these words scrawied
upon il:
II can tell you where Danders Is to be
seen.
JAMES SULLIVAN.
bartender at SIS East Thirteenth street."
My brain was on fire in minute. All
the whisky in Sullivan's saloon could
not have made it work al quicker pace.
No dinner for me that night. In ten
minutes l had found q cab and was
bowling along to 31s East Thirteenth
street. 1 found my barkeeping friend
exasperatingly cool. I had expected to
lind him eagerly waiting for me. On
the contrary, had to Introduce myself
and refresh his memory with that five
dollar bill before he could remember
much about Danders. Y cs. Danders had
turned up again, but not in that saloon.
Sullivan had met him at the saloon of
friend of his in Twenty y-second street
near Ninth avenue, and upon making
Inquiries had discovered that he (Dan-
ders) was accustomed to spend most of
his evenings there.
Off l started for Twenty-second
street. It was past eight o'clock when
l sauntercd into the saloon with as good
an air Of Indifference as l could sum-
mon up. Was Danders there? Adozen
men were in the saloon. some playing
cards, some reading the papers or Cos
slping. In one corner was man whose
face was strangely familiar to me.
sat down before glass OF beer and
while pretending to read a newspaper
studied Danders. It was Danders with
out doubt--'a small young fellow,
reddish hair, chin-whiskcrs, seedy
dress;' he filled Sullivan's description.
But where had I seen him before?
have a capital memory, and was able
to reconstruct gradually the scene in
which Danders had played a part in my
life. 1t was in some gloomy place. The
light was bad. The man was CARRYING
something in his arms. But what? All!
l had it now. 1t was load OF books.
Then the truth flashed upon me. Dan
ders was the clerk at the library whom
had met in the alcove when I had gone
to look at that copy of the Londoner.
My work was done. I finished my beer
and went to the house of my friend the
librarian, getting his address from the
directory.
Can you tell me whose handwriting
that is?" l asked him, producing Dan
ders' letter to the Gazette.
"Certainly," said he, without Sec
ond's hesitation. Its the writing of
Jameson, the man who has charge of
the magazine department of the IL
brary.'
Then l told him what had learned.
Il never fully trusted that fellow
was my friends comment as he agreed
to meet me at thelibrary the next morn
ing.
When 1 got there he was already in
his private room, and before him was
the famous card bearing Miss Robert