There is just one word to describe it, John: it was a
Madonna's face--a Madonna of Eighth Avenue!"
Mr. Neal paused and glanced at his friend. The chief clerk said nothing,
but dug at the turf with his stick.
"But the tall man was not there," resumed Mr. Neal. "I knocked at the
door and asked about him. The woman didn't know; no man was in their
rooms, she said. She was a poor widow. She wanted to know how I got in.
I could see I was frightening her, so I left, and I could hear the door
locked behind me."
The little clerk sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes.
His friend rose suddenly.
"Come," he said. "Let's walk--and talk about something else."
This was but the first of many talks the two clerks had about the face.
Mr. Neal's friend became more and more sympathetic toward the quest. One
afternoon Mr. Neal detained the chief clerk as he was leaving the office
after work. The little clerk's eyes were very serious, and his voice was
low as he said:
"John, I know that I am going to find him very soon. I know it."
"How do you know it?" asked the chief clerk. "Something--well--psychic?"
"Oh, no. It's not mysterious. It's just a--a certainty, John. I know I
shall find him very, very soon."
"Well, you know--" and the chief clerk looked at Mr.
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