“Can you tell me where I will find Bob King?”

“Bob is not working to-day, and you will probably find him at the Union House, yonder,” was the reply, as the man stretched his dirty finger in the direction indicated.  Thanking the man, he passed through the yard to the street upon the opposite side.  Here he found a long row of houses of various descriptions, but all of them apparently occupied as eating-saloons, boarding-houses and hotels.  On the corner of the street, and directly opposite from where the detective stood, was a low, dingy-looking frame building, with the name of Union House painted across the front.

“Here we are,” said Manning to himself, “and we will soon ascertain if Mr. King is about.”

So saying he crossed the street and entered the office or waiting-room of the hostelry.  An old settee, a half-dozen or more well-whittled wooden arm-chairs, a rusty stove set in a square box filled with saw-dust, were about all the movable furniture which the room contained.  In the corner, however, was a short counter behind which, arranged on long rows of hooks, were suspended a number of hats, caps and coats of a decidedly miscellaneous character.

An ancient-looking register, filled with blots and hieroglyphics, lay upon the counter, and as the room was empty, Manning walked toward the open volume and examined the names inscribed thereon.  Under the date of the preceding evening, he found the name he was looking for, and a cabalistic sign on the margin designated that he had lodged there the night before and indicated that he might still be in the house.

While he was thus standing, a frowsy-headed young man, whose face was still shining from the severe friction of a coarse roller-towel, which hung behind the door, entered the room, and saluting the detective familiarly, proceeded to comb his hair before a cracked mirror that hung behind the desk.  After he had hastily finished this operation, he turned again to Manning, who had been smilingly observing his movements.

“Have you had breakfast, sir? last table just ready.”

“Thank you,” replied Manning, “I have already had my breakfast.  I am looking for a man who is stopping here, by the name of King.”

“What’s his first name—­Bob?”

“Yes, that’s his name.  He is a brakeman on the road.”

“Oh, yes, Bob’s here.  He’s eating his breakfast now.  Just sit down, he’ll be here directly.”

After waiting a few minutes, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, of rather good-natured and intelligent appearance, entered the room, and taking a cap from one of the hooks upon the wall, placed it upon his head.

It did not require the rather officious indication of the young clerk to induce the detective to recognize the new-comer as the man whom he was most desirous of seeing; his appearance tallied precisely with the description of him which he had previously obtained.