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Page 86
Perchance the song, so silver-sweet,
The roses' regal blossoms shrine:
Perchance the bending lily droops,
And trembles, 'neath its thrill divine.
It may be that all beauteous things,
Though lacking music's perfect key,
Have with their inmost being twined
The hidden chords of melody.
So pine they all, to hear again
The song they know, but cannot sing;
The living utterance, full and clear,
Whose voiceless breathings round them cling.
Yet still those accents waken not;
The bird has left the linden tree;
A summer silence falls once more
Upon the listening rose and me.
A DETECTIVE'S STORY.
The following is a true story, by a late well-known member of the
Detective service, and, with, the exception of some names of persons and
places, is given precisely as he himself related it.
Late one Friday afternoon, in the latter part of November, 18--, I was
sent for by the chief of the New York Police, and was told there was a
case for me. It was a counterfeiting affair. Notes had been forged on a
Pennsylvania bank; two men had been apprehended, and were in custody.
The first, Springer, had turned State's evidence on his accomplice; who,
according to his account, was the prime mover in the business. This man,
Daniel Hawes by name, had transferred the notes to a third party, of
whom nothing had been ascertained except that he was a young man, wrote
a beautiful hand, and had been in town the Monday before. He was the man
I was to catch.
It was sundown when I left the superintendent's office. I had not much
to guide me: there were hundreds of young men who wrote a beautiful
hand, and had been in town last Monday. But I did not trouble myself
about what I did not know: I confined myself to what I did know. Upon
reflection I thought it probable that _my man_ had been in intimate
relations with Hawes for the last few days, probably since Monday last,
although it was not known that he had been in town since that day. He
might not be a resident in the city; but I decided to seek him
here--since, if he had not left town before the arrest of Springer and
Hawes, he would not just now run the risk of falling into the hands of
the police by going to any railroad station or steamer wharf.
I determined, therefore, to follow up the track of Hawes, and thereby,
if possible, strike that of his confederate--which was, in fact, all
that could be done.
Hawes was a small broker. He lived in Eighteenth street, and had an
office in Wall street.
He lived too far up town, I thought, to go home every day to his dinner;
he went then, most probably, always to the same eating house, and one
not far from his office.
After inquiring at several restaurants near by, I came to one in Liberty
street, where, on asking if Mr. Hawes was in the habit of dining there,
the waiter said yes.
'Have you seen a young man here with him, lately?' I inquired.
'No--no one in particular,' replied the waiter.
'Are you sure of it? Come, think.'
After scratching his head for a moment, he said:
'Yes, there has been a young man here speaking to him once or twice.'
'How did he look?'
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