It would seem that there can be no human creature so obscure as to have neither relatives, friends, nor acquaintances, and yet this appeared to be the case, for a full description of this girl had been blazoned in the papers of every large city, had been exposed in countless country post-offices, and conveyed to the police of every city of the States and Canada.  It was as if the mysterious occupant of the Morgue had been born of the winter wind on that fateful evening two weeks before.  The country had been dragged by a net of publicity, that marvelous, fine-meshed fabric from which no living man is small or shrewd enough to escape, and still the sad, white face at the Morgue continued to smile out from its halo of gold as if in gentle mockery.

For a long time Paul Anderson sat staring into the realms of speculation, his lips white with hunger, his cheeks hollow and feverish from the battle he had waged.  His power of exclusion was strong, therefore he lost himself to his surroundings.  Finally, however, he roused himself from his abstraction and realized the irony of this situation.  He, the weakest, the most inexperienced of all the men who had tried, had been set to solve this mystery, and starvation was to be the fruit of his failure.

He saw that it had begun to snow outside.  In the lobby it was warm and bright and vivid with jostling life; the music of a stringed orchestra somewhere back of him was calling well-dressed men and women in to dinner.  All of them seemed happy, hopeful, purposeful.  He noted, furthermore, that three days without food makes a man cold, even in a warm place, and light-headed, too.  The north wind had bitten him cruelly as he crossed the street, and now as he peered out of the plate-glass windows the night seemed to hold other lurking horrors besides.  His want was like a burden, and he shuddered weakly, hesitating to venture out where the wind could harry him.  It was a great temptation to remain here where there was warmth and laughter and life; nevertheless, he rose and slunk shivering out into the darkness, then laid a course toward the Morgue.

While Anderson trod the snowy streets a slack-jowled editor sat at supper with some friends at the Press Club, eating and drinking heartily, as is the custom of newspaper men let down for a moment from the strain of their work.  He had told a story, and his caustic way of telling it had amused his hearers, for each and every one of them remembered the shabby applicant for work, and all of them had wasted baffling hours on the mystery of this girl with the golden hair.

“I guess I put a crimp in him,” giggled Mr. Burns.  “I gave him a chance to show those talents he recommends so highly.”

“The Morgue, on a night like this, is a pretty dismal place for a hungry man,” said one of the others.  “It’s none too cheerful in the daytime.”

The others agreed, and Burns wabbled anew in his chair in appreciation of his humor.