Thus he visited the theatres, concert halls,
casinos, and other places of amusement. He called at the private office
of the Pinkerton Detective Agency several times, but nothing was
accomplished. He mingled with the congregations of the more popular
churches, with his mind and eyes upon the people more than upon the
preacher, but without results.
One morning he sat in the reception room of his boarding place feeling
somewhat discouraged. He was reading a morning paper, when a young girl,
the daughter of the lady of the house, tripped along the hall holding
several letters which the postman had just handed in.
"O, Mr. Worth," she exclaimed, "I want to show you the picture of my last
beau. He is a countryman of yours. He promised to send me his photograph,
and here it is. He is good looking, isn't he?" And she handed the card to
Worth. "I didn't expect him to keep his promise," she concluded.
As Worth glanced at the picture, he was startled, for his eyes fell upon
a face he had seen in the junior class a year ago at Burrough Road
commencement. Turning the card over, he read on the back: "From your ever
true friend and well-wisher, J.G. Markham, Evansville, Indiana."
"What is your friend's name?" asked Worth.
"James Thorne," answered the girl. "Did you ever see him?"
In an indifferent tone Worth replied: "Don't know anybody of that name."
In thirty-six hours the young detective found himself domiciled in a
quiet little hotel, the Mount Vernon, on the wharf of the Ohio River, at
Evansville, Indiana.
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