It was on a hot sultry morning in August, about ten days after the robbery at Geneva, that William Everman arrived at the picturesque little city of Woodford.  Woodford was the home of the brother of Mrs. Newton Edwards, with whom that lady was supposed to have taken refuge after her quarrel with her husband.  Everman proceeded directly to the hotel upon his arrival, and quickly announced himself as a traveling salesman from a neighboring city.  In a casual conversation with the clerk, he ascertained that Edwards and his wife were quite well known in the place, and that the clerk was an intimate acquaintance of the lady’s husband.

“Is Edwards stopping here now?” inquired the detective, in a careless manner.

“No!” answered the clerk, as he fondly curled the ends of a very delicate and scarcely perceptible mustache.  “He hasn’t stopped here since his marriage; he usually goes to the home of his wife’s family now.”

“Do you know whether he is in town now?”

“I think not, unless he arrived last night,” answered the young man.  “There are several letters here for him, and he would have called for them before this.  He has his mail always directed here.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Everman.  “I have some instructions for him from the house he travels for, and he ought to get them as soon as possible.”

“Perhaps Mr. Black could tell you where he is.  I believe Edwards’ wife is staying with him, and she certainly could tell you where you could address him, or whether he is expected here very soon.”

After thanking the clerk for his information and ascertaining the business place of Mr. Black, the detective left the hotel, and sauntered about the city.

Walking leisurely down the main street, he soon came in sight of the place to which he had been directed.  It was a small frame building, somewhat old and dilapidated, and was sadly in need of the painter’s brush and a new covering of paint.  Over the doorway swung a dingy, time-worn and weather-beaten sign, upon which he could barely decipher the words:  “Henry black, Locksmith,” and over which were suspended a pair of massive crossed keys which at one time had been bright golden, but which now were old and rusty looking.  In the low window in front there was a rare and curious collection of articles that would have delighted the eyes of an antiquarian.  Locks there were, that were relics of a by-gone age, and seemed as if they might have done service on dungeon doors in some ancient keep in feudal times—­strange and grotesque locks that had evidently pleased the fancy of some old connoisseur, whose treasures were guarded by these strange looking protectors, which had now outgrown their usefulness, and were exhibited as curiosities in the practical age of to-day.  Locks of latest finish and design, and locks red and rusty and worn out, were mingled together with a confusion and carelessness that bespoke a thriving business, which left no time for order or arrangement.