The Tracer of Lost Persons

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXV, Issue 8, 26 August 1905, Page 6

The Tracer of Lost Persons

|KA Pursuit of the Ideal and the Attain= ment of Hap= piness . . .

By

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS,

Author of “ lole.”

Earth could not answer, nor the seas that mourn In flowing, purple I. I ’ was t hirtyt hive, agreeable Hto look at, equipped with as much culture and intelligence as is tolerated eas of Fifth Avenue and west ■"■■■■■■ of Madison. He had a coupie of elaborate rooms at the Lenox Club, a larger income than seemed to be good for him. and no profession. It follows that he was a pessimist before breakfast. Besides, it s a bad thing for a man at thirty-three to come to the conclusion that he has seen all the most attractive girls in the world and that they have been vastly overrated. So, when a club servant with gilt buttons on his coat-tails knocked at the door, the invitation to enter was not very cordial. He of the buttons knocked again to take the edge oil before he entered; then opened the door and unburdened himself as follows: “Mr Gatewood, sir, Mr Kerns’ compli meats, and wishes to know if 'e may ’ave ’is coffee served at your tyhle. sir. Gatewood, before the mirror, gave a vicious twist to his tie, inserted a pear, scarfpin, and regarded the effect wi.h gloomy approval. “Say to Mr Kerns that I am Hatter ed,” he replied morosely: “and tell Henry 1 want him.” ‘•’Fury, sir? Yes, sir.” I’he servant left ; one of the sleek club valets came in, softly sidling. “Henry!” “I'll wear a white waistcoat, if yon don't object.” The valet laid out half a dozen. “Which one do you usually wear when I'm away. Henry? Which is your favourite?” “Pick it out and don't look injured, and don’t roll up your eyes. I mereh desire to borrow it for one day.” “Very good, sir.” “And. Henry, hereafter always help yourself to my best cigars. Those I smoke may injure you. I've attempted to conceal the keys, but you will, of course, eventually discover them under that loose tile on the hearth." “Yes, sir; thanky’, sir,” returned the valet gravely. “And—Henry! ” “Sir?” with martyred dignity. “When you an* tired of searching for my olivine and opal pin. just find it. for a change. I'd like to wear that pin for a day. or two if it would not inconvenience you.” “Very good, sir: I will hint it hup. Gatewood put on his coat, took hat and gloves from the unabashed valet, and sauntered down Io the sunny break-fast-room. where he found Kerns in specting a morning paper ami leisurely consuming grapefruit with a cocktail on the side.

“Hullo!” observed Kerns briefly. “I’m not on the telephone.” snapped Gatewood. “1 beg your pardon; how are you, dear friend?” “I don't know how 1 am.” retorted Gate wood irritably; “how the devil should a man know how he is?'' “Everything going to the bow-wows, as usual, dear friend?”

“As usual. Oh. read your paper. Tommy! You know well enough I’m not one of those tail-wagging imbeciles who wakes up in the morning singing like a half-witted lark. Why should I. with this taste in my mouth, and the laundress using vitriol, and Henry sneering at my cigars?” He yawned and east his eyes toward the ceiling. “Besides, there's too much gilt all over this club! I’here's too much everywhere. Half the world is stucco, the rest rococo. Where's that Martini I bid for?” The Tracer Two— Kerns, undisturbed, applied himself Io cocoa and toasted muffins. Grape fruit and an amber-tinted accessory were brought for the other, and sampled without mirth. However, a little later Gatewood said: ‘‘Well, are you going to read your papers all day?” “\\ hat you need.” said Kerns, laving the paper aside, “is a job—any old kind would do. dear friend.” I don t want to make any more money.” “I don’t want you to. I mean a job where you’d lose a lot and be scared into thanking Heaven for carfare.

You’re a nice object for the breakfasttable!” “Bridge. 1 will be amiable enough bx noontime.” es, you re endurable by noontime, as a rule. When you’re forty you maybe tolerated after five o’clock; when you’re fifty your wife and children might even venture to emerge from the cellar after dinner—” “Wife!” “I said wife.” replied Kerns, as he calmly watched his man. He had managed it well, so far. and he was wise enough not to overdo it. An interval of silence was what the situation required. “1 wish I had a wife,” muttered Gatewood after a long pause. "Oh. haven’t you said that every lay foi live years? Wife! Look at the willing assortment of dreams playing Sally Waters around town? Isn’t this borough a bower of beauty—a flowery thicket where the prettiest kind in al : the world grow under glass or outdoors? And what do you do? You used to pretend to prowl about inspecting the yearly crop of posies, growling, cynical, dissatisfied; but you’ve even given that up. Now you only point your nose skyward and squall for a mate and yowl mournfully that you never have seen your ideal. 1 known you.” “1 never have seen my ideal,” retorted Gatewood sulkily, “but I know she exists—somewhere between Heaven and Hoboken.” “You're sure, are you?” "Oh. I’m sure. And. rich or poor, good or bad. she was fashioned for me alone. That’s a theory of mine; you needn’t accept it; in fact, it’s none of your business, Tommy.” “All the same,” insisted Kerns, “did you ever consider that if your ideal does exist somewhere it is morally up to you to find her?” "Haven’t T inspected every debutante for ten years? You don’t expect me to advertise for an ideal, do you—object, matrimony?” Kerns regarded him intently. “Now, I’m going to make a vivid suggestion. Jack. In fact, that’s why I subjected myself to the ordeal of breakfasting with you. It’s none of my- business, as you so kindly put it. but—shall I suggest something?” “Go ahead.” replied Gatewood, tranquilly lighting a cigarette. “I know what you’ll say.” “No, you don’t. Firstly, you are having such a good time in this world that, vou don’t really enjoy yourself—isn’t that so?” “I—well I—well, let it go at that.” “Secondly, with all your crimes and felonies, you have one decent trait left; you really would like to fall in love. Ami I suspect you’d even marry.” “There are grounds,” said Gatewood guardedly, “for your suspicions. Et apres?” “oGod. Then there’s a way! I know—” “Oh. don’t tell me you ‘know a girl,' or anything like that!” began Gatewood sullenly. “I’ve heard that, before, ami I won’t meet her.” “I don’t want you to; I don't know anybody. All I desire to say is this:

I do know a way. The other day I noticed a sign on Fifth Avenue: KEEN & CO. Tracers of Lost Persons. It was a most extraordinary sign; and having a little unemployed imagination I began to speculate on how Keen and ( o. might operate, and I wondered a little, too, that the conditions of life in this city could enable a firm to make a living by devoting itself exclusively to the business of hunting up missiiw people.” ° Kerns paused, partly to light a cigarette, partly for diplomatic reasons. “What has all this to do with me?” inquired Gatewood curiously; and diplomacy scored one. “Why not try Keen and Co.?” “Try them? Why? I haven’t lost anybody, have I?” "You haven’t precisely lost anybody, but the fact remains that you can’t find somebody,” returned Kerns coolly. “Why not employ Keen and Co. to look for her?” “Look for whom, in Heaven’s name?” “Your ideal.” "Look for—for my ideal! Kerns, you're crazy. How the mischief can anybody hunt for somebody who doesn’t, exist?” "Y ou say that she does exist.” "But I can’t prove it, man.” "You don’t have to: its up to Keen and Co. to prove it. That’s why vou employ them.” “What wild nonsense you talk! Keen and Co. might, perhaps, be able to trace the concrete, but how are they going to trace and find the abstract?” “She isn’t abstract; she is a lovely, healthy and youthful concrete object—if. as you say, she does exist.” “How can I prove she exists?” “You don’t have to; they do that.” “Look here,” said Gatewood almost angrily, “do you suppose that if I were ass enough to go to these people and tell them that I wanted to find my ideal—” "Don't tell them that!” "But how—”

"There is no necessity for going into such trivial details. All you need say is: ‘I am very anxious to find a young lady’—and then describe her as minutely as you please. Then, when they locate a girl of that description they’ll notify you; you will go, judge for yourself whether she is the cue

woman on earth — and, if disappointed, you need only shake your head and murmur: ‘Not the same!’ And it’s for them to find another.” “I wont do it!” said Gatewood hotly. ‘•Why not? At least, it would be amusing. You haven’t many mental resources, and it might occupy you for a week or two.” Gatewood glared. “You have a pleasant way of putting things morning, haven’t you?” “1 don’t want, to be pleasant: I want to jar you. Don’t I care enough abouT you to breakfast with you? Then I’ve a right to hr pleasantly unpleasant. I can’t hear to watch your mental and spiritual dissolution—a man like you, with all your latent ability and capacity for bring nobody in particular—which is the sort of man this nation needs. Do you want io turn into a club-window gazer like Van Bronk? Do you want to become another Courtlandt Allerton and go rocking down the avenue—a grimacing, tailor-made sepulchre?—the pompous obsequies of a dead intellect?—a funeral on two wavering legs, carrying the corpse of all that should be deathless in a man? Why, Jack, Fd rather see you in bankruptcy — I’d rather sec yon trying to lead a double life in a single Hat on seven dollars and a half a week—l’d almost rather see you every day at breakfast than have it come to that! "Wake up and get jocund with fife! Why.-you could have all good citizens stung to death if you chose, it isn’t that 1 want you to make money; but I want you to worry over somebody besides yourself —not in Wall-street —a pool and its money are soon parted. But in your own home, where a beautiful wife and seven angel children have you dippy and close to the ropes; where the housekeeper gets a rake-off, and the cook is red-headed and comes from Sligo, and the butler’s cousin will bear watching. amt the chauffeur is a. Frenchman, and the coachman’s uncle is a Harlem vet., and every scullion in the establishment lies, drink, steals and supports twenty satiated relatives at your expense. That would mean the making of you; for. after alt, Jack, you are no genius—you’re a plain, nonpartisan. uninspired, clean-built, wholesome citizen, thank God!—the sort, whose unimaginative mission is to pitch in with eighty odd millions of us and. like the busy coral creatures, multiply with all your might, and make this little old Republic the greatest, biggest, finest article that an overworked world has ever yet put up! . . . Now you can call for help if you choose.” Gate wood’s breath returned slowly. In an intimacy of many years he had never suspected that sort of thing irom Kerns. That is why. no doubt, the opinions expressed by Kerns stirred him to an astonishment too innocent to harbour anger or chagrin. And when Kerns stood up with an unembarrassed laugh, saying: "I'm going to the office; sec you this evening?” Gatewood replied rather vacantly: "Oh, yek; dining here. Good-bye, Tommy.” Kerns glanced at his watch, lingering. “Was there anything you wished to ask me. Jack?” he inquired guilelessly. "Ask you? -No. I don’t think so?’ “Oh; I had an idea you might care to know where Keen and Co. were to be found.” "That.” said (kitewood firmly, “is foolish.” "I’ll write the address for you. anyway,” rejoined Kerns, scribbling it ami handing the curd to his friend. Then he went down the stairs, several at a time. eased in conscience, satisfied that he had done his duty by a friend he caret! enough for to breakfast with. “Of course.” he ruminated as he crawled into a hansom ami lay bftek buried in meditation -“Of course there may be nothing in this Keen and Co. business. But it will stir him up and set him thinking; and the longer Keen and .Co. take to limit up an .imaginary lady that doesn't exist, the more anxious and impatient poor old Jack Gatewood will become, until he’ll catch

the fever and go cantering about with that one fixed idea in his head. And,” added Kerns softly, “no New Yorker in his right mind can go galloping through these five boroughs very long b fore he's roped, tied and marked by the ‘only girl in the world’—the only girl—if yon don't care to turn around and look at another million girls precisely like her. Oh, Lord! —precisely like her!” Here was a nice exhort er to incite others to matrimony. Meanwhile, Gatewood was walking along Fifth Avenue, more or less soot lied by the May sunshine. First, lie went to his hatter’s, looked at straw hats, didn't like them, protested, and bought one, wishing he had strength of mind enough to wear it home. But he hadn’t. Then he entered the huge white marble palace of his jeweller, left his watch to be regulated, caught a glimpse of a girl whose hair and neck resembled the hair and neck of his ideal, sidled around until he discovered that she was chewing gum. and backed olf, with a bitter smile, into the avenue once more. Every day for years lie had had glimpses of girls whose hair, hands, figures, eyes, hats, carriage, resembled the features required by his ideal; there always was something wiong somewhere. And. as he strolled moodily, a curious feeling of despair seized him —something that, even in his most sentimental moments, even amid the most unexpected disappointment, lie had never before experienced. “I do Want to love somebody!” he found himself saying half aloud: "1 want to marry; I —” He turned to look after three pretty children with their maids —“I want several like those — several!—seven —ten — 1 don’t earc how many! I want a house to worry me, just as Tommy described it: 1 want to see the same girl across the breakfast - table —or she can sip her cocoa in bed if she desires —” A slow, modest blush stole over his features; it was one of the nicest things he ever did. Glancing up, he beheld across the way a white sign, ornamented with strenuous crimson lettering: KEEN & CO. Tracers of Lost Persons. The moment he discovered it he realised he had been covertly hunting for it; he also realised that lie was going to climb the stairs. He hadn t quite decided what lie meant to do after that; nor was his mind clear on the matter when lie found himself opening" a door of opaque glass on which was printed in red: Keen & Co. He was neither embarrassed nor nervous when he found himself in a big carpeted anterocm where a negro attendant bowed him to a seat and iOOit his card; and lie looked calmly around to see what was to be seen. Several people occupied easy ehairs in various parts of the room--an old woman very neatly dressed, clutching in her withered hand a photograph which she studied amt studied with tear dimmed eyespi young man wearing last year’s most fashionable styles in everything except his features; mil soap could have aided him there; hi<> policemen, helmets resting on their knees; and, last of all. a rather, thin child of twelve, staring open mouthed at everybody, a bundle of soiled cloth-, ing under one arm. Ilndugh an open door he saw a dozen young women g-trb-ed in black, with white cud's and collars, all rattling away steadily at typewriters. Every now and then, from some hidden office, a hell rang decisively, and one of the girls would rise from her machine and pass noiselessly out of sight to obey the summon. From time to time, too, the darky servant with marvellous maimers would usher somebody through the room wher? the typewriters were rattling, into the unseen office. First the. old woman went —shakily, clutching her phoi ograph : then the thin child with the bundle, staring at everything:tben the two fat policemen, in portentous ing l, lilc, helmets in their white gloved hands, oiled hair glistening. Gatewood’s turn was approaching; he waited without any definite emotion, watching newcomers enter to t ike the places of those who had been summoned. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what lie was to say; nor did it worry him. A curious sense of impending good fortune left him pleasantly tranquil he picked up, from the silver tray on the table at his elbow, one of the firm's business cards, and scanned it with interest :

KEEN A CO. Tracers of Lost Pvrsoii.< Keen and Co. are prepared to locate the whereabouts of anybody on earth. No charges will be made unless the person searched for is found. Blanks on application. West re I Keen. Manager. “Mistuh Keen will see you. still,” came a persuasive voice at his elbow; and he rose ami followed the softly moving coloured servant out of the room, through a labyrinth of demure young women at their typewriters, then shhrpJy to the right and into a big. handsomely furnished office. where a sleepylooking elderly gentleman rose from an armchair and bowed. There couhl not be the slightest doubt that he was a gentleman; every movement, every sound he uttered settled the fact. “Mr Keen?” “Mr Gatewood?“-—wiib a quiet certainty which had its charm "This is very good of you.” Gatewood sat down and looked at his host. Then he said: “I’m searching for somebody. Mr Keen, wlicin you arc not likely to find.” “I doubt it.” said Keen pleasantly. < latewood .smiled. "If.” he said, “you will undertake to find the person I cannot find. I must ask you to accept a retainer.” "We don’t require retainers.” replied Keen. "I nless we find the person sought for. we make no charges, Mr (ratewood.” "I must ask you to do so in mv case. It is not fair that you should undertake it on other terms. I desire to make a special arrangement with you. Do you mind?” "W hat arrangement had you contemplated?” inquired Keen, amused. "Only this: charge me in advance exactly what you would charge if successful. And. on the other hand, do not ask me for detailed information I mean, do not insist on any information that I decline to give. Do you mind taking up such an extraordinary and unbusiness-like proposition. Mr Keen?” The Tracer of Lost Persons looked up sharply: "About how much information do you decline to give. Mr Gatewood?” "About enough to incriminate and d • grade.” replied the young man. laughing. The elderly gentleman sat silent, apparently buried in meditation. Once or twice his pleasant steel-grey eyes wandered over Gatewood as an vxperi, a connoisseur, glances at a picture, and assimilat(‘s its history, its value, its artistic merit, its every detail in one prartisul glance. "I think we may take up this mailer for you. Mr (latewood.” he said, smiling his singularly agreeable smile. "But—but you would first desire to know something about me would you not ?” Ke n looked at him: “Y<»u will not mistake me- you will consider it entirely iuollensive if I say that I know something about you. Mr Gatewood?” “About me? How can you? Of course, there is the social register and the club list s and all t hat ” "And many, many sources of information which are necessary in such a business as this. Mr Gatewood. It is a necessity for us to he almost as well informed as our clients* own lawyers. I could pay you no sincerer compliment than to undertake your case. I am half inclined to do so even without a retainer. Mind. I haven’t yet said that I will take it.” “1 prefer to regulate any possible indebtedness in advance.” said Gatewood. “As you wish.” replied the older man, smiling. "In th;U ease, suppose you draw your cheque,” he handed (latewood a fountain pen as the young man fished a cheque-book from his pocket "your cheque for well, say for .'>ooo dols., to the ord< r of Keen and Co.” Gatewood met his eye without wincing; he was in for it now; and ho was always perfectly game. He had brought

it upon himself; it was his own proposal t<m. Not that he would have for a moment considered the sum as high — or any sum exorbitant if there had bemi a vliance of success; one cannot compare and weigh such matter-. But how couhl there be any chance foi >uccess 9 As be slowly smoothed out the cheque am! stub, pen poised. Keen was saying: “Of course, wo should succeed -outlet or later—if we took up your cast*. W’e might succeed tomorrow to-day. 'l’hat would mean a large profit for us. But .we might, not succeed to-day. or next month, or even next year. That would leave us little or no profit: and. as it is our custom to go on until we do succeed, no matter how long it may require, you see. Mr Gatewood, I should be taking all sorts of chances. It might even cost us double your retainer before we found her "Iler? How did whv did vou sny •her’?” "Am I wrong?” asked Keen, smiling. “No you are right.” The Tracer of Lost Prisons sank into abstraction again. (lat<*wood waited, hoping that his case might Im* declined, yet ready to face any music started at his own reonest. "She is young,” mused Keen aloud, "very beautiful and accomplished. Is she wealthy?” Hr looked up mildly. Gatewood said: “I don’t know Hie truth is I don’t care ” And stopped. "O ho!” mused Keen slowly. "I think—l understand. Am I wrong. Mr. Gatewood, in surmising that this young lady whom you seek is. in your <*vt*, very I may say ideally gifted?’’ "She is my ideal.” replied the young man, colouring. "Exactly. And her general allure?” "Cha lining!” "Exactly; but to be a t rille more precise if you couhl give me a sketch, an idea, a men* outline delicately tinted, now. Is she more blond than brunette?” “Yes- but her eyes are brown. I I insist on that.” "Why should you not? You know her; 1 don’t,” said Keen, laughing. “I merely wished to form a mental picture. . . . You say her hair is is—” "It’s full of sunny colour; tlml’s al! 1 can say.” "I.xactly—l see. A rare and lovely combination with brown eye- and creamy skin, Mr. Gatewood. I fanev she might be. perhaps, an inch or two under your height?” "Just about that. Iler bands should he are beautiful Exactly. The ensemble is most vividly portrayed. Mr. (latewood; ami vou have intimated that her lack of fortune cr we might almost say her pecuniary di-tress- is more (han compensated lor by her accomplishments, character. and \(‘iy unusual beauty. Did I so understand you. Mr. Gatewood ?” "I hat’s what I meant, anyhow.” he said. Hushing up. "\'<>tt did mean it ?’’ “I did : I do.” "Then we take your case. Mr. Gatewood. . . . No haste about tin cheque, my dear sir- pray consider u- at y.mr service.” But Gatewood doggedlv tilled in the check and handed it- to the Trace r of Lost Persons. "I wish you happiness.” said the older man in a low voice. "The lady sou describe exists; it is for us to discover her.” "Thank you,*’ stammered Gatewood, astounded. Keen touched an electric button; a moipent later a young girl entered the room. "Miss Southerland, Mr. (latewooj. Will you be kind enough to take Mr. Gatewood’s dictation in Room 19?” For a second Gatewood stared-as though, in the young gi’l bcfoie him, the ghost of his ideal had ri-en to confront him -only for a second; then lie bowed; matching her perfect, acknowh’dgment of his presence by a bearing and courtesy which must have been inbred to be so faultless.

And he followed her to Room 19. What had Keen meant by saying. “The lady you describe exists!” Did this remarkable elderly gentleman suspect that it was to be a hunt for an ideal 9 Had he deliberately entered into such a bargain? Impossible! His disturbed thoughts reverted io the terms of the bargain: the entire enterprise. the figures on his check; his own amazing imbecility appalled him. What idiocy! What sudden tftadness had seized him to entangle himself in such un-heard-of negotiations! True, he had played bridge until dawn the night before. but. on awaking, he had discovered no perceptible hold-over. It must have been sheer weakness of intellect that permitted him to be dominated by the suggestions of Kerns. And now the. game was on: the jack declared, cards dealt, and his ante was up. Had he openers? Room 19. duly labelled with its number on the opaque glass door, contained a desk, a table, and typewriter, several comfortable chairs, and a window opening on Fifth Avenue, through which the eastern sun poured a stream of glory, washing curtain, walls, and ceiling with palest gold. Ami all this time, preoccupied with new impressions and his own growing chagrin, he watched the girl who conducted him with all the unconscious assurance and grace of a young chatelaine passing through her own domain under escort of a distinguished guest. When they had entered Room 19, she half turned, but lie forestalled her and closed the door, and sin* passed Indore him with a perceptible inclination of her finely-modelled head, seating herself at the desk by the open window. Ih* took an armchair at her elbow and removed his gloves, looking at her expectantly. “This is a list of particular and general questions for you to answer, Mr (latewood.*' she said, handing him a long Klip of printed matter. “The replies to such questions as you are able or willing to answer you may dictate to me.” The beauty' of her modulated voice was scarcely’ a surprise- no woman who moved and carried herself as did this tall young girl in black and white could reasonably be expected to speak with less distinction—yet the charm of her voice, from the moment, her lips unclosed. so engrossed him that the purport of her speech escaped him. ‘‘Would you mind saying it once more?” he asked. She did so: he attempted to concentrate his attention, and succeeded sufti-

cient ly to look as though some vestige of intellect remained in him. He saw her pick up a pad and pencil; the contour ami grace of two deliciously fashioned hands arrested his mental process once more. “I beg your pardon,” he said, hastily; “what were you saying, Miss Sett-Hier-land ?” • “Nothing, Mr (latewood. I did not speak.” Ami he realised, hazily, that she had not spoken that it was the subtle eloquence of her youth and loveliness that had appeared like a sudden voice—a sound faintly exquisite echoing his own thought of her. Troubled, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand: it was headed: Special Description Blank (Form K) And he read it as carefully as he was able to —the curious little clamour of his pulses, the dazed sense of elation—almost of expectation—distracting hi-x attention all the time. “I wish you would read it to me,” he said; “that would give me time to think up answers.” “If you wish,’’ she assented pleasantly, swinging around toward him in her deskchair. 'Then she crossed one knee over the other to support the pad, and. bending above it, lifted her brown eyes. She could have done nothing in the world more distracting at that moment. “What is the sex of the person you desire to find, Mr Gatewood?” “Her sex? 1 -well, 1 fancy it is feminine.” She wrote after “Sex” the words, “She is probably feminine:” looked at him absently., glanced at what she had written. Hushed a lilt le, rubbed out the. “she is probably.” wondering why a moment’s mental wandering should -have committed her to absurdity. “Married?” she asked with emphasis. “No.” he replied, startled; then, vexed: “I beg your pardon—you mean to ask if she is married!” “Oh, I didn’t mean you, Mr. Gatewood; it's the. next question, you see”— she held out the blank toward him. “Is the person you are looking for married ?” “Oh. no: she isn’t married, either—at least—l trust —not—because if she is I don’t want to find her!” he ended, entangled in an explanation which threatened to involve him deeper than he desired. Ami. looking up, he saw the beautiful brown eyes regarding him steadily. They reverted to the paper at once, ami the white lingers sent the pencil living. “He trusts that she is unmarried, but if she is (underlined) married he doesn’t want to find her.*’ she wrote. “That.” she explained, “goes under the head of ‘General Remarks’ at the bottom of the page”—she held it out. pointing with her pencil. He nodded, staring at her slender hand. “Age?” she continued, setting the pad firmly on her rounded, yielding knee and looking up at him. “Age? Well, 1 as a matter of fact. 1 could only venture a surmise. You know,” he said earnestly, “how difficult it is to guess ages, don’t you. Miss Soul hi ria nd ?’’ “How old do you think she is? Could you not hazard a guess— judging, say, from her appearance?” “I have no data no experience to guide me.” He was becoming involved again. “Would you. for practice, permit me first to guess your age. \li-s Southerland ?” “Why yes if you think that might, help you to guess hers.” So he leaned back in his armchair and considered her a very long time having a respectable excuse to do so. Twenty times he forgot he was looking at her for any purpose except that of disinterested delight, and twenty times he remembered with a guilty wince that it was a matter of business. “Perhaps I had* better tell you,” she suggested, her colour rising a little under hi-» scrutiny. “Is it eighteen? Just her ago!’’ “Twenty-one. Mr. Gatewood and you said you didn't know her age.” “I have just remembered that T thought it might be eighteen but I dare say I was shy three years in her rase, too. You may put it down at twentyone.” For the -lightest fraction of a second the brown eyes rested on his, the pencil hovered in hesitation. Then the eyes fell, and the moving fingers wrote. “Di<l you write ‘twenty one’?” he inquired carelessly.

“I did not. Mr. Gatewood.” “What did you write?’’ “I wrote: ‘He doesn’t appear to know much about her age.’ ” “But I do know ” “Viu said ” They looked at one another earnestly. “The next question,” she continued with composure, “is: ‘Date and place of birth?’ Can you answer any part of that question?” “1 trust J may be able to—some day. . . . What are you writing?” “I’m writing: ‘He trusts he may be able to, some day.’ Wasn’t that what you said?” “Yes, 1 did say that. I—l’m not perfectly sure what I meant by it.” She passed to the next question: “Height ?’’ “About live feet six,” be said, fascinate<! gaze on her. “Hair?” “More gold than brown—full of —er— gleams ” Sin* looked up quickly; his eyes reverted to the window rather suddenly. He had been looking at her hair. “Complexion?” she continued after a shade of hesitation, “ft’s a sort of delicious mixture—bisque, tinted with a pinkish bloom—ivory and rose *’ He was explaining volubly when she began to shake her head, timing each shake to his words. “Really, Mr. Gatewood, I think yon are hopelessly vague on that point—unless you desire to convey the impression that she is speckled.’’ “Speckled!” he repealed, horrified. “Why. I am describing a woman who is my ideal of beauty— ’’ But she had already gone to the next question f “Teeth ?’’ “P-p-perfect p-p-pearls!” he stammered. The, laughing red mouth closed like a flower at dusk, veiling the sparkle of her teeth. Was he trying to be impertinent ? Was be deliberately describing her? He did not look like that sort of man; yet why was he watching her so closely, so curiously at every question? Why did he look at her teeth when she laughed? “Eyes?” Her own dared him to continue what, coincidence or not. was plainly a description of herself. “B-b-b He grew suddenly timorous, hesitating, pretending to a perplexity which was really a hei-lthy scare. For she was frowning. “Curious 1 can’t think of the colour of her eyes,” be said; “is—isn’t it*.” She coldly inspected her pad and made a correction; but all she did was to rub out a comma and put another in its place. Meanwhile. Gatewood, chin in his band. sat buried in profound thought. “Were they blue?” he murmured to himself aloud, “or were they brown? Blue begins with a b and brown begins with a b. I’m convinced that her eves began with a b. They were not, therefore, gray or green, because.” he added in a burst of confidence, “it is utterly impossible to spell gray or green Avith a b!” Miss -Southerland looked slightly astonished: “All you can recollect, then, is that the (<dour of her eyes began with the letter b?” “That is absolutely all T can remember; but I think they were—brown.’ “If they were brown they must be brown now.” she observed, looking out of the window. “That's true! Isn't it curious I never thought of that? What are you writing?” “Brown,” she said so briefly that it

sounded something like a snub. “Mouth?” inquired the girl, turning a new leaf on-4ier pad. — . . “Perfect. Write it: there is no other term fit to describe its colour, shape, its sensitive beauty, its What, did you write just then?” “I wrote, ‘Mouth, ordinary.’” “I don't want you to! 1 want ” “Really, Mr Gatewood, a rhapsody on a girl's mouth is proper in poetry, but scarcely germane to the record of a purely business transaction. Please answer the next question tersely if you don’t mind: ‘Figure-’” “Oh, 1 do mind! I can’t! Any poem is much too brief to describe her fig“Shall we say ‘perfect’?” asked the girl, raising her brown eyes in a glimmering transition from vexation to amusement. For, after all, it could be only a coincidence that this young man should be describing features peculiar fo herself. “Couldn't you write, ‘Venus-of-Milo-Jike’?” he inquired. “That is laconic.” “I could—if it’s true. But if you mean it for praise—l—don't think any modern woman would be flattered.-” “I always supposed that she of Milo had an ideal figure,” he said, perplexed. She wrote, “A good figure.'’ Then, propping her rounded chin on one lovely white hand, she glanced at the next question : “Hands?” - ’ “White, beautiful, rose-tipped, Mender yet softly and firmly rounded ” “How can they be soft and firm, too, Mr. Gatewood ?’’ she protested; then, surprising his guilty eyrs fixed on her hands, hastily‘ dropped them r «iml sat up straight, level-browed, cold iis marble. Was he deliberately being rude to hey? As a matter of fact, he was not. Too poor in imagination to invent, on. the spur of the moment, charms qualities suited to his ideal be had. at first unconsciously, taken as a model the girl before him; quite unconsciously and innocently at first —then furtively, and with ft dawniiig perception of the almost flawless beauty lie was secretly plagiarising. Aware, now, that something had annoyed her; aware, too. at the same moment that there appeared to bo nothing lacking in her to satisfy his imagination of the ideal, be began to turn redder than he had ever turned in all his life. Several minutes of sixty seconds, each ensued before he ventured to stir a finger. And it was only when she bent again very gravely over her pad that he cautiously eased a cramped muscle or two, and drew a breath—a long, noiseless. deep, and timid respiration. He realised the enormity of what be bad been doing—how close he had come to giving unpardonable olTence by drawing a perfect portrait of her as the person be desired t<> find through the good offices of Keen and Co. But there was no such person!—unless she had a double: for what more could a man desire than the ideal traits he bad been able to describe only by using her as his inspiration. When he ventured to look at her, one glance was enough to convince him that she. too. had noticed the parallel—had been forced to recognise her own features in the portrait he had constructed of an ideal. And she had caught him in absent-minded contemplation of the hands be had been describing. He knew that his face was the face of a guilty man. “What is the next qup-tion?” he stam-

mcred, eager tu answer it in a manner cak*nl*tc<ftu'allay her suspicions. •’The next question?” She glanced at the list, then with a vuicv? of velvet which belied the yes, clear as frosty brown pools in November: “The next question requires a description of her fw?t.” “Feet! Oh —they—they're rather large -—why, her feet are enormous, I believe She looked at him as though stunned; Suddenly a Hood of pink spread, wave on wave, from the white nape of her neck to her hair; she bent low over her pad and wrote something, remaining in that attitude until her face cooled. “Somehow or other I've‘done it again!” he thought, horrified. “The best thing 1 can do is to end it and go home.” In his distress he began to hedge, say“()f course, she is rather tall and her feet are in some sort of proportion—in fact, they are perfectly symmetrical feet Never in his life had he encountered a pair of such angrily beautiful ‘-‘yes. Speech stopped with a dry gulp. “We now come to ‘General Remarks,’ ” she said in a voice made absolutely steady and emotionless. “Have you any remarks of that description to offer, Mr. Gatewood?” .•»» “l‘m willing to make remarks,” lie said, “if 1 only knew what you wished me to say.” ■ • ■ She mused, eyes on the sunny window. then looked up. “Where did you last see her?” “Near Fifth Avenue.” “And what street?” He named lie street. “Near here?” “Rather,” he said timidly. She, ruffled the edges of her pad. wrote something and erased it. bit her scarlet upper lip, and frowned. “Out-of-doors, of course?” “No: indoors,” he admitted furtiveV She looked up with a movement almost nervous. “Do you dare—l mean, care —to b.® more concise?” “1 would rather not,” he replied in a voice from which he hoped he had expelled the tremors of alarm. “As you please, Mr. Gatewood. And would you care to answer any of these other questions: Who and what are or were her parents? Give all particulars concerning all her relatives. Is she employed <n> not? What are her social, financial and general circumstances? Her character, personal traits, aims, interests, desires? Has she any vices? Any virtues? Talents? Ambitions? Caprices? Fads? Are you in love with her? Is “Yes,” he said. “T am.” “Is she in love with you?” “No; she hates me—l’m afraid.” *ls she in love with anybody ?” “That is a very difficult- “ The girl wrote: “lie doesn’t know,” with a satisfaction apparently causeless. “Is she a relative of yours, Mr. GateWood?” very sweetly. “No, Miss Southerland,” verv positively. ‘Aon—you desire to marry her —vou Bay ?” . ' “I do. But T didn’t say it.” She was silent, then:

“What is her name?” in a low' voice which started several agreeable thrills chasing one another over him. “I—l decline to answer,” he stammered. “On what grounds. Mr. Gatewood?” He looked her full in the yes; suddenly he bent forward and gazed at the printed paper from which she had been apparently reading. “Why, all those questions you are scaring me with are not there!” he exclaimed indignantly. “You are making them up?” “I—l know', but” —she was Hushing furiously—“but they are on the other forms—some of them. Can’t you see you are answering ‘Form K’? That is a special form ” “But why do you ask ire questions that are not on Form K?” “Because it is my duty to do all I can to secure evidence which may lead to the discovery of the person you desire to find. 1— I assure you, Mr Gatewood, this duty is not—not always agreeable — and some people make it harder still.” Gatewood looked out of the window. Various emotions —among them shame, mortification, chagrin — pervaded him, and chased each other along his nervous system, colouring his neck and ears a fiery red for the enlightenment of any observer. “I-—I did not mean to offend you,” said the girl in a low’ voice—such a gently regret fid voice that Gatewood swung around in his chair. “There is nothing I would not be glad to tell you about the woman I have fallen in love with,” he said. “She is overwhelmingly lovely, and — when I dare—l will tell you her name and where I first saw her—and where I saw her last—if you desire. Shall 1?” “It would be advisable. When will you do this?” “When 1 dare.” “You—you don’t dare —now?” “No . . . not now.” She absently wrote on her pad: “He doesn’t, dare tell me now.” Then, with head still bent, she lifted her mischiefmaking, trouble-breeding brown eyes to his once more. “i am to come here, of course, to consult you?” he asked dizzily. “Mr Keen will receive you ” “He may be busy.” “He may be,” she repeated, dreamily. “So—l’ll ask for you.” “We could write you. Mr (fatewood.” He said hastily: “It’s no trouble for me to come; I walk every morning.” “But there would be no use, I think, in your coming very soon. All I—all Mr Keen could do for a while would be to report progress ” “That is all I dare look for: progress —for the present.” During the time that lie remained—w hich was not very long—licit her of them spoke until lie arose to take his departure. “Good-bve. "Miss Southerland. 1 hope you may find the person I have been searching for.” “Good-bye. Mr Gatewood I hope we shall; . . . but I—don’t — know.” Ami. as a matter of fact, she did not know; she was rather excited over nothing, apparent ly: and also somewhat preoccupied with several rather disturbing (‘motions, the species of which sin* was interested in determining. But to l ibel and catalogue each of these emotions separately required privacy ami leisure to think —and she also wished to look very earnestly at the reflection of her own face in the mirror of her own chamber. For it is a trille exciting though hut an innocent coincidence —to be compared, feature by. feature, to a young man’s ideal. As far as that went, she excelled it, too: and. as she stood by the desk, alone, gathering up her notes, she suddenly bent over and lifted the hem of her gown a trifle—-sufficient .to reassure herself that the dainty pair of shoos she wore would have baffled the efforts of any Venus ever sculptured. And sin* was perfectly right. “Of course,” she thought to herself, “his ideal runaway hasn’t enormous feet. He. too. must have been struck with the similarity between me and his ideal, and when he realised that I also noticed it he was frightened by my frown into saying that her feet were enormous. How silly! . . . For I didn’t mean to frighten him. . . . He frightened mo —once or twice—l mean he irritated mo — no. interested me. is what I do mean. . . . ITeigho! I wonder why she ran away? I wonder why ho can’t find her? . . . It’s—it’s silly to run AW’av from a man like that

Ileigho! . . . She doesn’t deserve to be found. There is nothing to be afraid of- nothing to alarm anybody in a man like that.” So she gathered up her notes and walked slowly out and across to the private office of the Tracer of Lo-t Persons. “Come in.” said the Tracer when she knocked, lie was using the telephone; she seated herself rather listlessly beside the window, where spring sunshine lay in gilded patches on the rug and spring breezes stirred the curtains. She was a little tired, but there seemed to be no good reason why. Yet. with the soft wind blowing on her cheek, the languor grew; she rested her face on one closed hand, shutting her eyes. When they opened again it was to meet the fixed gaze of Mr Kern. “Oh 1 beg your pardon!’’ There is no need of it, child. Be seated. Never mind that report just now.” He paced the length of the room once or twice, hands clasped behind him; then, halting to confront her: “W’lia* sort of a man is this young Gatewood ?” “What sori. Mr. Keen? Why—l think he is the—the sort—that ” “I see that you don’t think much of him? ’ said Keen, laughing. “Oh. indeed I did not mean that at all; I mean that he appeared to be—to be ” “Rather a cad?” “Why. no!” she said. Hushing up. “He is absolutely well bred. Mr. Kern.” “You received no unpleasant impression of hint ?” “On the contrary!” she said rather warmly—for it hurt her sense of justice that Keen should so misjudge even a stranger in whom she had no personal interest. “You think he looks like an honest man?” “Honest?” She was rosy with annoyance. “Have you any idea that he is dishonest ?” “Have you?” “Not the slightest,” she said with emphasis. “Suppose a man should set us hunting for a person who does not exist—on our terms, which are no payment unless successful? Would that he honest?” asked Keen gravely. “Did—did he do that ?” “No. child.” “I knew he couldn’t do such a thing!” “No. hr—er—couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t allow it—not that he tried to!” added Keen hastily as the indignant brown ryes sparkled ominously. “Really. Miss Southerland, he must he all you say hr is. for he has a staunch champion to vouch for him.” “Al! I say hr is? I haven't said anything about him!” i Air. Keen nodded. “Exactly. Let us drop him for a moment. . . . Are you perfectly well, Miss Southerland?”

“Why, yes.” “I’m glad of it. You ar * a trille pate; you swill to be a little languid. • • • When do you take your vacation?” ‘•You suggested May. I believe,” she said wistfully. The Tracer leaned back in his chair, joining the tips of his fingers reflectively. “Miss Southerland,” hr said, “you have Imm‘U with us a year. I thought it might interest, you to know that I am exceedingly pleased with you.” She coloured charmingly. “But,” he added, “I’m terribly afraid wr'r«‘ going to lose vou.” “Why?” she asked’, startled. “However,” he continued, ignoring her half frightened question with a smile. “I am going to promote you for faithful and efficient service.” “O—h!” “With an agreeable increase of salary, and new duties which will take you into the open air. . . . You ride?” “I — I Used to before ” “Exactly; before you were obliged to earn your living. Please have yourself measured for habit and boots this afternoon. I shall arrange for horse, saddle and groom. You will spend most of your lime riding in the park—for the present.” “But — Mr. Keen—am I to Im» one of your agents —a sort of detective?” Keen regarded her absently, then crossed one leg over tiie other. “Read me your notes,” he said with a smile. She read them, folded them, and he took them from her. thoughtfully regarding her. “Did you know that your mother and 1 were children together?” hr asked. “No!” She stared. “Is that why you sent for me that (lay at the school of stenography ?’’ “That is why. . . . When I learned that my playmate—your mother—was dead, is it not. reasonable to suppose that I should wish her daughter to have a chance?”, Miss Southerland looked at him steadily. “She was like you—when she married. I never married. Do you wonder that I sent for you. child?” Nothing but tin* clock ticking there in the sunny room, ami an old man staring into two dimmed brown eyes, and the little breezes at the open window whispering of sunnmns past. “This young man. Gatewood.” said the Tracer, clearing his voice of its hoarseness “this young man ought to be all right, if I did not misjudge his father years ago. child, years ago. And he is all right He half ♦ urned toward a big letter-file; “his rccor;l is clean, so far. 'The trouble with him is idleness. Hr ought to marry.” “Isn’t he trying to?” she askr I. “It looks like it. Miss Sout hrrluii h we must find this woman!” “Yrs, but I don’t sec how vou are go-

Ing to on sinh slight information—” “Information? Child, 1 have all I Avant all I could desire.*’ lie laughed, 'passing liis hands over his grey hair. “We are going to find the girl he is in love with before the week ends’” "l)<» you really think so?” she exclaimed. “Yes. But you must do a great deal in this case.” “I?” “Exact ly.” “And and what am I to do?” “Bide in the Park, child! And if you Fee Mr (latewood, don’t you dare take your eyes off him for one moment. Watch him: observe everything he does. If he should recognised you and speak to you. be as amiable to him as though it were not by my orders.’ “Then then 1 am to be a detective!” she faltered. The Tracer did not appear to hear her. He took up the notes, turned to the telephone, and to send out a general alarm, reading the description of the person whom (latewood had described. The vast, intricate and delicate machinery under his control was being set in motion all over the Union. “Not that 1 expect to find her outside the borough of Manhattan,” he said, smiling, as he hung up the receiver and turned to her: “but it’s as well to know how many types of that species exist in this Republic, and who they are- in case any other young man comes here raving of brown eyes and •gleams' in the hair.” Miss Southerland, to her own intense consternat ion. blushed. “I think you had better order that habit at once,” said the Tracer carelessly. “'l 01l me. Mr Keen,” she asked tremulously. “am I to spy upon Air Gate? wood? And report to you? . . . For J simply cannot bear to do it —” “Child, you need report nothing unless you desire to. And. when there is something to report, it will be about the woman I am searching for. Don’t you understand ? I have already located her. You will find her in the Park. And when you are sure she is the right one and if you care to report It to me I shall be ready to listen. • . . I am always ready to listen to you.” “But I warn you. Air Keen, that I have perfect faith in the honour of Mr Gatewood. I know that I could have nothing unworthy to report.” “I am sure of it,” said the ’Tracer of Lost Persons, studying her with eyes that wore not quite clear. “Now. I think you had better order that habit. Your mother sat her saddle perfectly. . . . We rode very often—niy lost playmate and I.” lie turned, hands clasped behind his back, absently pacing the room, backward, forward, there in the spring sunshine. Nor did he notice her lingering, nor mark her as she stole from the room. brown eyes saddened and thoughtful, wondering, too. that there should be in the world so much room for sorrow. 11. Gatewood, burdened with restlessness and gnawed by curiosity, consumed a week in prowling about the edifice where Keen and Co. carried on an interesting profession. His first visit resulted merely in a brief interview with Mr. Keen, who smilingly reported progress and suavely bowed him out. He looked about for Miss Southerland as he was leaving, but did not see her. (In his second visit he mustered the adequate courage to ask for her. ami experienced a ciniously sickly sensation when informed that Miss Southerland was no longer employed in the bureau of statistics, having been promoted to an outside position of great responsibility. His third visit proved anything but satisfactory. He sidled and sidestepped for ten minutes before he dared ask Mr. Keen where Miss Southerland had gone. And when the Tracer replied that, considering the business hr had undertaken for Mr. (latewood, iie really; could not see why Mr. Gatewood should interest himself concerning the whereabouts of Miss Southerland, the young man had nothing to say. and escaped as soon as possible, enraged at himself, at Mr. Keen, and vaguely holding the entire work! guilty of conspiracy. Ih l had no definite idea of what he wanted, except that his desire to see Mi*s Southerland again seemed out of all proportion to any reasonable reason for seeing her. Occasional lit* ot dia-

gust witli himself for what he had done were varied with moody hours of sjm<-u--kition. Suppo-e Mi. Keen did find his ideal? What of it* He no longer wanted to see her. lie had no use for her. The savour of the enterprise had gone Male in his mouth; he was by turns worried, restless, melancholy, sulky, uneasy. A vast emptiness pervaded his life, lie smoked more and more and ate less and less. He even disliked to see others (‘at, particularly Kerns. , And one exquisite 'May morning he came down to breakfast ami found the unspeakable Kerns immersed in grapefruit. calm, well balanced, and bland. “How-dc-dee, dear friend?” said that gentleman affably. ‘‘Any news from (’upid this beautiful May morning?” “No. ind 1 don’t want any.” returned Gatewood, sorting his mail with a scowl and waving away his fruit. “Tut! Tut! Lovers must he patient. Dearie will be found some day ” “Some day.” snarled Ga if wood, “I shall destroy vou. Tommy.” “Naughty! Naughty!” reflected Kerns, pensively assaulting the breakfast-food. “Lovey must not worry; Dovey shall be found, and all will be joy and gingerbread. ... If you throw that orange I’ll run screaming to the governors.Aren't you ashamed —just because you are in a love tantrum! ’ . “One more word and you get it! “May I sing as 1 trifle with this frugal fare, dear friend? My heart is so happy that I should love to warb.e a. few wild notes ” He paused io watch his badgered victim dispose of a Martini. “I wonder.” he musrd. “if yon d like me to tell you what a cocktail before breakfast does to the lining of your stomach? Would you?” “No. I suppose it’s what the laundress does to my liven. W hat do I care?” “Don’t be a short sport. Jack. “Well, 1 don’t care for the game you put me up against. Do you know what has happened?” “f really don’t dear friend. The Tracer of Lost Persons has not found her —has h. ? ?” “He says he has.” retorted Gatewood sullenly, pulling a crumpled telegram from his pocket and casting it upon the table. “I don’t want to see her: I'm not interested. 1 n.-ver saw but one girl in my life who interested me in th * slightest; and she’s employed to help in this ridiculous search.” Kerns, meanwhile, had smoothed out the telegram and was intently perusing it. John Gatewood, Lenox Club, Eifth Avenue: Person probably discovered. Call here as soon as possible. W. KEEN. “What do you makt? of that?’’ demanded Gatewood hoarsely. “Make of it? Why. it's true enough, T fancy. Go and sec, and if it's she, be hers!”' “I won't. T don’t want to see any ideal! 1 don’t want to marry. Why do you try to make me marry somebody?” “Because it's good for you, dear friend. Otherwise you’ll go to the doggydogs. You don't realize how much worry you are to me.” “Confound it! Why' don’t you marry? Why didn't I ask you that when you put me up to all this foolishness? What right have you to ” “Tut. friend! I know there's no woman alive fit to wed in? and spend her life in stealing kisses from me. 1 have no ideal. You have an ideal.” “I haven't!” “Oh. yes. dear friend, there's a stub in you? checkbook to prove it. A on simply bet 5000dol. that your ideal existed. You've won. Go and be her joy’ and sunshim*.” “I'll put an eml to this whole business,’’ said Gatewood wrathfully, “and I'll do it now !” “Bet you that yoir're engaged within the week!” said Kerns with a placid smile. Th* other swung around savagely: “What will you bet. Tuinmy? You may’ have what odds you please. I'll make y'ou sit up for this." “I’ll lw*t you.” answered Kerns deliberaftely, “an ent in* silver dinner service against a saddk* horse for the bride.” “Unit’s a fool- bet!” snapped Gatewood. “What do you mean?” “Oh. if you don’t care to-; ” “What do I want • ♦’ a silver service? But all right; I’ll i you anything.” “She’ll want it.’’ r« plied Keens significantly. booking the bet. “I may as well santrr out to Tiffany’s this morning, I

fancy. ... Where are you going, Jack ! •’To sec Keen and confess what an ass I’ve been!” returned Gatewood sullenly, striding across the breakfast room to take his hat and gloves from the rack. And out h? went, mad all over. On his way up the avenue he attempted to formulate the humiliating confession which already he shrank from. But it had to be done. He simply could not stand the prospect of being notified month after month that a lady would be on view somewhere. It was like going lor a fitting; it was horrible. Besides, what use was it? Within a week or two an enormous and utterly inexplicable emptiness had yawned before him, revealing life as a hollow delusion. He no longer cared. Immersed in bitter reflection, he climbed the familiar stairway, and sene his card to Mr. Keen, and in due time he was ushered into the presence of the 1 racer of Lost Persons. ‘ Mr. Keen,” he began, with a headlong desir<* to get it over and be done with it, 1 may as well tell you how impossible it is for yen. or anybody, to find that person 1 described ” Air. Keen raised an expostulate! y hand, smiling indulgence: “It is mon* than possible, Air. Gatewood. mon* than probable, it is almost an accomplished fact. In other words. I Hunk I may venture to congratulate you and say that she is found.” Now, how can she be found, when there isn’t- ” Mr. Gatewood, the magician will always wave his magic wand for you and show’ you his miracles for the price of admission. But for that price he does not show you how he works his miracles,” said Keen, laughing. But I ought to tell yon,” persisted Gate wood, “that it is utterly impossible you should find the person I w-ish-ej to discover, because she ” “I can only prove that you are wrong.” smiled Keen, rising from bis easy chair. “Mr. Keen,” said the young man earnestly. “I have been more or less of a chunq) at times. One of those times was when I came here on this errand. All I desire, now, is to let the matter rest as it is. lam satisfied, and you have lost nothing. Nor have you found anything or anybody. You think you have, but you haven’t. Ido not wish you to continue the search, or to send me any further reports. I want to forget the whole miserable matter — to he free—to feel myself freed from any obligations to that irritating person I asked you to find.” The Tracer regarded him verv grave!.v. “Is that your wish. Air Gatewood? I can scarcely credit it.” “It is. I’ve been a fool; I simply want to stop being one if anybody will permit it.”

“And you decline to attempt tn identify the very beautiful per-on we bavs discovered to be tire individual for whom you asked us to search?” “I do. She may be beautiful; but I know well enough she can’t compare with—some one.” "1 am sorry," said Keen, thoughtfully. “We take so much pride in these matters. When one of iny agents discovered where this person was 1 was rather—happy: for I have taken a .peculiar personal interest in vonr case. However ” “Mr. Keen,” said Gate wood, “if you could understand how ashamed and mortified I am at my own conduct ** Keen gazed pen-ivrly out of the window: “1 also am sorry; Miss Southerhind was to have received a handsome bonus for her discovery ” “Miss S-S-S-Southerland! ’’ “Exactly; without quite so many S’s,” said Keen, smiling. “Did she discover that—that person?” exclaimed the voting man, startled. “She thinks she has. I am not sure that she is correct; but I am absolutely certain that Miss Southerland could eventually discover the person you were in search of. It seems a little hard on her—just on the eve of success—to lose. But that can’t be h<d]><‘d now.” Gatewood, more excited and uncomfortable than he had ever been in all his life, watched Keen intently. “Too bad, too had.” muttered the Tracer to himself. “The child needs the encouragement. It meant a thou-and dollars to her——” Be shrugged his shoulders, looked up, and. as though rather surprisc'd to see Gatewood still there- smiled an impersonal smile and offered his hand in adieu. Gatewood winced. “Could I—l see Miss Southerland?” he asked. “I am afraid not. She is at this moment following my instru< tions to —but that cannot interest you now ” “Yes, it does!-—if you dYm’t mind. Where is she? I—l’ll take a look at the person she discovered: I will, realb-.”' “Why, it's only this: I suspected that you might identify a person wiioin I had reason to believe was to be found every morning riding in the Park. So Miss Southerland has been riding there every day. Yesterday she came here, greatly excited—” “Yes—yes—go on!”

Keen gazed dreamily at the sunny window. “She thought she had found your—er —the person. So I said you would-meet her on the bridle-path, near -—but that’s of no interest now—”

“Near where?” demanded Gatewood, suppressing inexplicable excitement. And as Keen said nothing: “I’ll go; I want to go, I really do! Can’t—can't a fellow change his mind? Oh, 1 know

you think I’m a lunatic, and there's plenty of reason, too!’’ Keen studied him calmly: ‘"Yes, plenty of reason, plenty of reason, Mr. Gatewood. But do you suppose you are the only one? I know another who was perfectly sane two weeks ago." The young man waited impatiently; the Tracer paced the room, grey head bent, delicate, wrinkled hands clasped loosely behind his bent back. “You have horses nt. the Whip and Spur Club.” he said abruptly. “Suppose you ride out and see how close Miss Southerland has come to solving our problem.” Gatewood seized the offered hand and wrung it with a fervour out of all reason; and it is curious that the Tracer of Lost Persons did not appear to be astonished. “You’re rather impetuous—like your father,” he said slowly. “1 knew him; so I’ve ventured to trust his son—even when I heard how aimlessly he was living his life. Mr Gatewood! May I ask you something—as an old friend of your father?” The young man nodded, subdued, perplexed, scarcely understanding. “It’s only this: If yon do find the woman you couhl love —in the Park—-to-day —come back to me some day and let me tell you alt those foolish, trite, tiresome things that I should have told a son of mine. I am so old that you will not take offence—you will not mind listening to me. or forgetting the dull, prosy things 1 say about the curse of idleness, and the habits of cynical thinking, and the perils of vacant-minded indulgence. You will forgive me—and you will forget me. That will be as it should be. Goodbye.” Gatewood, sobered. surprised. descended the stairs ami bailed a hanBoni. And all the way to the Whip and Spur Club he sat buried in a reverie from which, at intervals, he started, aroused by the heavy, expectant beating of his own pulses. But what did he expect, in Heaven’s name? Not the discovery of a woman who had never existed. Yet his excitement and impatience grew as he watched the saddling of his horse; and when at. length he rode w out into the sunshine and cantered through the Park entrance. his sense of impending events and his expectancy amounted to a fever which coloured his face attractively'. He saw het almost immediately. Her horse was walking slowly' in the dappled shadows of the new foliage; she, listless in her saddle, sometimes watching the throngs of riders passing, at - moments turning to gaze into the woodland vistas where, over the thickets of flowering shrubbery. orioles and robins sped llasaiug on tinted wings from shadow to sun, from sun to shadow. But she looked up as he drew bridle and wheeled his mount beside her: and “Oh! ’ she said, flushing in recognition. "I have missed you terribly,” he .said quietly. It was dreamy weather, even for late Bpring: the scent of lilacs ami ino.korange hung heavy as incense along the woods. Their voices unconsciously'

found the key to harmonise with it all. She said: “Well, 1 think I have succeeded. In a few moments she ill be passing. I do not know her name; she rides a big roan. She is very beautiful, Mr Gatewood.” He said: “I am perfectly certain we shall find her. I doubted it until now. But now I know.” “Oh—h, but I may be wrong,” she protested. “No; you cannot be.” She looked up at him. “You can have no idea how happy you make me,” she said unsteadily. “But—l—but I may be all wrong—dreadfully wrong!” “Y—es; you may' be, but I shall not be. For do you know that I have already seen her in the Park?” “When?” she demanded incredulously, then turned in the saddle, repeating: “Where? Bid she pass? How perfectly stupid of me! And was she the—the right one?” , “She is the right one. . . . Don’t turn; I have seen her. Ride on; I want to say something—if I can. “No, no,” she insisted. “I must know whether 1 was right —’ “You are right —but you don t know it yet. . . . Oh, very well, then; we’ll turn if you insist.” And he wheeled his mount as she did, riding at her bridle again. “How can you take it so coolly—so indifferently?”’ she said. “Where has that woman —where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and pass us sooner or later, for she lives uptown. What are you laughing at, Mr Gatewood?” —in annoyed surprise. “I am laughing at myself. Oh, I’m so many kinds of a fool —you can’t think how many, and it's no use!” She stared astonished; he shook his head. “No, you don’t understand yet. But you will’. Listen to me: this very beautiful lady you have discovered is nothing to me!” “Nothing—to you!” she faltered. Two pink spots of indignation burned in her cheeks. “How—how dare you say that! ■—after all that has been done —all that you have said. You said you loved her; you did say so—to me!” “I don’t love her now.” “But you did!” Tears of pure vexation started; she faced him, eye to eye, thoroughly incensed. “What sort of man arc you?” she said under her breath. “Your friend Mr Kerns is wrong. You are not worth saving from yourself.” “Kerns!” he repeated, angry and amazed. “What the deuce has Kerns to do with this affair?” She started, then, realising her indiscretion, bit her lip and spurred forward. But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along in silence. Tn a little while she drew bridle and looked around coldly, grave with displeasure. “Mr Kerns came to us before you did. He said you would probably come, and he begged us to strain every cnort in your behalf, because, he said, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you the woman you were seeking. . . . And I tried- —very bard—ami now shels found. Yotf admit that—and now you say ” “I say that one of these balmy summer days I’ll assassinate Tommy Kerns!” broke in Gatewood. “What on earth possessed that prince of butters in to go to Air Keen?” “To save you from yourself,” retorted the girl in a low. exasperated voice. “He did not say what threatened you; he is a good friend for a man to have. But we soon found out what you were a man well born, well bred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly b. earning an idle, cynical, self-centred egoist — a man who. lacking the lash of need or the spur of ambition, was liegenerating through the sheer uselessness and inanity of bis life. Ami, oh. the pity of it! For Mr Keen and I have taken a a curiously personal interest in you — in your case. I say, the pity of it!” Astounded, dumb under her stinging words, he rode beside her through the brilliant sunshine, wheeled mechanically as she turned her horse ami rode north again. “Avid now now!” she said passionately. “You turn on the woman you loved! Oh, you are not worth it!” “You are quite right,” he said, turning very white under her scorn. ’ Almost, all you have said is true enough, I fancy. I amount to nothing; I am idle, cynical, selfish. The emptiness of sueh a life requires a stimulant; even a

fool abhors a vacuum. So I drink—not so very much yet — but more than 1 realise. And it i* cluse enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it- now that you have told me. You see. he couldn't tell me. because 1 should not have believed him. But F believe you—all you say except one thing. Ami that is only a glimmer of decency left in me—not that I make any merit of it. No, it is merely instinctive. For 1 have not turned on the woman I loved.” Iler face was pale as her level 'Ve< me! him: •‘You said she was nothing to you. . . . . Look there! Do you sec In r? Do you see her?” Her voice broke nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearing down at a gallop—a woman on a big roan, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with windflushed cheeks and dark, incurious cyts, while her powerful horse carried hoi on, away through the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista. “Is that the person?” “Y—es.” she faltered. "Was I wrong?” “Quite wrong. Miss Southerland.” “But—but you said you had seen her here this morning!” “Y’es, 1 ha.’.e.” “Did you speak to her before you met me ?” “No—not before I met you.” “Then you have not spokTm to Iter. Is she still lure in the Park?” “Yes, she is still here.” The girl turned on him excitedly: **I)o you mean to say that you will no; speak to her?” “I had rather not ” “And your happiness depend* on your speaking?” “Then it is cowardly not to speak.” “Oh. yes. it is cowardly. . If von wish me to speak to her I will. Shall !?” v Yes. . . . Show her to me.” “And you think that such a man a* 1 am has a right to speak of love to her?*’ “I—we believe it will b? your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must many her Io be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from the right woman to put you on your mettle Xnd—and that is my opinion.” “Then in charity say that word! he breathed, bending toward her. “Can’t you see? Can't you understand: Don’t you know that from the iiioiik irl I looked into your eyes I loved you?” ••How-— how dare you?” she stammered. crimsoning. “God knows,” he said wistfully. “1 am a coward. I don't know how I hired. Good-bye.” He walked his horse a little way. then launched him into a gallop, te tring on and on, sun. wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse and the breathless. ter rible tightening in. his throat. When he cleared his eyes and hu»ked around he was quite alone, his horse walking under the trees and breathing heavily. Al first he laughed, ami the laugh was not pleasant. Then he said aloud: 'll is worth having lived for. after ail', and was silent. And again: 1 could

expert nothing; she was perfectly to sidestep a foul. . . . Aiid >uS a foul!” Tin* distant gallop of a dulled on the soft soil, but coming nearer, could not arouse him from the Lifted depths he had sunk in; not eien when the sound ceased beside him. and hors< snorted recognition to horse. It was only when a light touch rested on hift arm that he looked up heavily, taught his breath. “Where is the oilier woman?” she gasped. “There never was any other.’** ••You said—” “I said I loved my ideal. I did not know she existed until I saw you.” “Then then we were svar-limg for —” “A vision. But it was your face that haunted me And I am not ■worth it. as you say. And I know . . . for you have opened my eyes. lie drew bridle, forcing a laugh. “I cut. a sorry figure in y<»ur life; bg patient; I am going out of it now. And he swung bis horse. At the sains moment she did the same, making a demitour ami meeting him halfway, confronting him. “Do you— you mean to ride out of my life without a word?” she unsteadily. ••Good-bye.” He olFricd his hand, stirring his horse forward: she le-owd lightly over and laid Ind h hands in his. Then, her face surging in colour, -he lifted her beautiful dark eye- Io his as the horses approached nearer, nearer, until as they passed. Hauk brushing flank, her eyes fell, then closed as si tv swayed toward him. and clung. her young lips crushed to his. There was nobody to witness it ex erpt the birds and squirrels nobody but a distant mounted policeman, who almost fainted away in his saddle. Oh, it was awful, awful! Apparud ly she had been kissed speech less, for she said nothing. The man fool did all the talking, incoherently enough, but *vidently satisfactory to her. judging from the way she looked at him. ami bhisl. d and blushed, and touched her eye* with a bit of cambric at intervals. All the policeman heard as they pissed him was: I’m going to give you this horse, and Kerns is to give us our silver; and what do you think, my lulling?” •W what ?” But they had already passed mil of earshot; and in a few moments the shadv. sun-flecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds and squirrels, and a single mounted pointman. rigid, wild-eyed, twisting his moustache and breathing hard. (The End.)