The Tracer of Lost Persons

  CHAPTER IV

  As a matter of fact, he was not. Too poor in imagination to invent, onthe spur of the moment, charms and qualities suited to his ideal, hehad, at first unconsciously, taken as a model the girl before him; quiteunconsciously and innocently at first--then furtively, and with adawning perception of the almost flawless beauty he was secretlyplagiarizing. Aware, now, that something had annoyed her; aware, too, atthe same moment that there appeared to be nothing lacking in her tosatisfy his imagination of the ideal, he began to turn redder than hehad ever turned in all his life.

  Several minutes of sixty seconds each ensued before he ventured to stira finger. And it was only when she bent again very gravely over her padthat he cautiously eased a cramped muscle or two, and drew a breath--along, noiseless, deep and timid respiration. He realized the enormity ofwhat he had been doing--how close he had come to giving unpardonableoffense by drawing a perfect portrait of her as the person he desired tofind through the good offices of Keen & Co.

  But there was no such person--unless she had a double: for what morecould a man desire than the ideal traits he had been able to describeonly by using her as his inspiration.

  When he ventured to look at her, one glance was enough to convince himthat she, too, had noticed the parallel--had been forced to recognizeher own features in the portrait he had constructed of an ideal. And shehad caught him in absent-minded contemplation of the hands he had beendescribing. He knew that his face was the face of a guilty man.

  "What is the next question?" he stammered, eager to answer it in amanner calculated to allay her suspicions.

  "The next question?" She glanced at the list, then with a voice ofvelvet which belied the eyes, clear as frosty brown pools in November:"The next question requires a description of her feet."

  "Feet! Oh---they--they're rather large--why, her feet are enormous, Ibelieve--"

  She looked at him as though stunned; suddenly a flood of pink spread,wave on wave, from the white nape of her neck to her hair; she bent lowover her pad and wrote something, remaining in that attitude until herface cooled.

  "Somehow or other I've done it again!" he thought, horrified. "The bestthing I can do is to end it and go home."

  In his distress he began to hedge, saying: "Of course, she is rathertall and her feet are in some sort of proportion--in fact, they areperfectly symmetrical feet--"

  Never in his life had he encountered a pair of such angrily beautifuleyes. Speech stopped with a dry gulp.

  "We now come to 'General Remarks,'" she said in a voice made absolutelysteady and emotionless. "Have you any remarks of that description tooffer, Mr. Gatewood?"

  "I'm willing to make remarks," he said, "if I only knew what you wishedme to say."

  She mused, eyes on the sunny window, then looked up. "Where did you lastsee her?"

  "Near Fifth Avenue."

  "And what street?"

  He named the street.

  "Near _here_?"

  "Rather," he said timidly.

  She ruffled the edges of her pad, wrote something and erased it, bit herscarlet upper lip, and frowned.

  "Out of doors, of course?"

  "No; indoors," he admitted furtively.

  She looked up with a movement almost nervous.

  "Do you dare--I mean, care--to be more concise?"

  "I would rather not," he replied in a voice from which he hoped he hadexpelled the tremors of alarm.

  "As you please, Mr. Gatewood. And would you care to answer any of theseother questions: Who and what are or were her parents? Give allparticulars concerning all her relatives. Is she employed or not? Whatare her social, financial, and general circumstances? Her character,personal traits, aims, interests, desires? Has she any vices? Anyvirtues? Talents? Ambitions? Caprices? Fads? Are you in love with her?Is--"

  "Yes," he said, "I am."

  "Is she in love with you?"

  "No; she hates me--I'm afraid."

  "Is she in love with anybody?"

  "That is a very difficult--"

  The girl wrote: "He doesn't know," with a satisfaction apparentlycauseless.

  "Is she a relative of yours, Mr. Gatewood?" very sweetly.

  "No, Miss Southerland," very positively.

  "You--you desire to marry her--you say?"

  "I do. But I didn't say it."

  She was silent; then:

  "What is her name?" in a low voice which started several agreeablethrills chasing one another over him.

  "I--I decline to answer," he stammered.

  "On what grounds, Mr. Gatewood?"

  He looked her full in the eyes; suddenly he bent forward and gazed atthe printed paper from which she had been apparently reading.

  "Why, all those questions you are scaring me with are not there!" heexclaimed indignantly. "You are making them up?"

  "I--I know, but"--she was flushing furiously--"but they are on the otherforms--some of them. Can't you see you are answering 'Form K'? That is aspecial form--"

  "But why do you ask me questions that are _not_ on Form K?"

  "Because it is my duty to do all I can to secure evidence which may leadto the discovery of the person you desire to find. I--I assure you, Mr,Gatewood, this duty is not--not always agreeable--and some people makeit harder still."

  Gatewood looked out of the window. Various emotions---among them shame,mortification, chagrin--pervaded him, and chased each other along hisnervous system, coloring his neck and ears a fiery red for theenlightenment of any observer.

  "I--I did not mean to offend you," said the girl in a low voice--such agently regretful voice that Gatewood swung around in his chair.

  "There is nothing I would not be glad to tell you about the woman I havefallen in love with," he said. "She is overwhelmingly lovely; and--whenI dare--I will tell you her name and where I first saw her--and where Isaw her last--if you desire. Shall I?"

  "It would be advisable. When will you do this?"

  "When I dare."

  "You--you don't dare--now?"

  "No . . . not now."

  She absently wrote on her pad: "He doesn't dare tell me now." Then, withhead still bent, she lifted her mischief-making, trouble-breeding browneyes 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--I'll ask for you."

  "We _could_ write you, Mr. Gatewood."

  He said hastily: "It's no trouble for me to come; I walk everymorning."

  "But there would be no use, I think, in your coming very soon. AllI--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 he remained--which was not very long--neither ofthem spoke until he arose to take his departure.

  "Good-by, Miss Southerland. I hope you may find the person I have beensearching for."

  "Good-by, Mr. Gatewood. . . . I hope we shall; . . . butI--don't--know."

  And, as a matter of fact, she did not know; she was rather excited overnothing, apparently; and also somewhat preoccupied with several ratherdisturbing emotions the species of which she was interested indetermining. But to label and catalogue each of these emotionsseparately required privacy and leisure to think--and she also wished tolook very earnestly at the reflection of her own face in the mirror ofher own chamber. For it is a trifle exciting--though but an innocentcoincidence--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 thedesk, alone, gathering up her notes, she suddenly bent over and liftedthe hem of her gown a trifle--sufficient to reassure herself that thedainty pair of shoes she wore, would have baffled the efforts of anyVenus ever sculptured. And she was perfectly right.

  "Of course," she thought to herself, "his ideal runaway hasn't enormousfeet. He, too, must have been struck with the simil
arity between me andhis ideal, and when he realized that I also noticed it, he wasfrightened by my frown into saying that her feet were enormous. Howsilly! . . . For I didn't _mean_ to frighten him. . . . He frightenedme--once or twice--I mean he irritated me--no, interested me, is what I_do_ mean. . . . Heigho! I wonder why she ran away? I wonder why hecan't find her? . . . It's--it's silly to run away from a man like that.. . . Heigho! . . . She doesn't deserve to be found. There is nothing tobe afraid of--nothing to alarm anybody in a man like that."

  So she gathered up her notes and walked slowly out and across to theprivate office of the Tracer of Lost Persons.

  "Come in," said the Tracer when she knocked. He was using the telephone;she seated herself rather listlessly beside the window, where springsunshine lay in gilded patches on the rug and spring breezes stirredthe curtains. She was a little tired, but there seemed to be no goodreason why. Yet, with the soft wind blowing on her cheek, the languorgrew; she rested her face on one closed hand, shutting her eyes.

  When they opened again it was to meet the fixed gaze of Mr. Keen.

  "Oh--I beg your pardon!"

  "There is no need of it, child. Be seated. Never mind that report justnow." He paced the length of the room once or twice, hands claspedbehind him; then, halting to confront her:

  "What sort of a man is this young Gatewood?"

  "What _sort_, Mr. Keen? Why--I 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 tobe--to be--"

  "Rather a cad?"

  "Why, _no_!" she said, flushing up. "He is absolutely well-bred, Mr.Keen."

  "You received no unpleasant impression of him?"

  "On the contrary!" she said rather warmly--for it hurt her sense ofjustice that Keen should so misjudge even a stranger in whom she had nopersonal interest.

  "You think he looks like an honest man?"

  "Honest?" She was rosy with annoyance. "Have you any idea that he isdishonest?"

  "Have you?"

  "Not the slightest," she said with emphasis.

  "Suppose a man should set us hunting for a person who does not exist--onour terms, which are no payment unless successful? Would that behonest?" asked Keen gravely.

  "Did--did _he_ do that?"

  "No, child."

  "I knew he _couldn't_ do such a thing!"

  "No, he--er--couldn't, because I wouldn't allow it--not that he triedto!" added Keen hastily as the indignant brown eyes sparkled ominously."Really, Miss Southerland, he must be all you say he is, for he has astanch champion to vouch for him."

  "All I _say_ he is? I haven't said anything about him!"

  Mr. Keen nodded. "_Ex_actly. Let us drop him for a moment. . . . Are youperfectly well, Miss Southerland?"

  "Why, yes."

  "I'm glad of it. You are a trifle pale; you seem to be a littlelanguid. . . . 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 fingersreflectively.

  "Miss Southerland," he said, "you have been with us a year. I thought itmight interest you to know that I am exceedingly pleased with you."

  She colored charmingly.

  "But," he added, "I'm terribly afraid we're going to lose you."

  "Why?" she asked, startled.

  "However," he continued, ignoring her half-frightened question with asmile, "I am going to promote you--for faithful and efficient service."

  "O-h!"

  "With an agreeable increase of salary, and new duties which will takeyou into the open air. . . . You ride?"

  "I--I used to before----"

  "_Ex_actly; before you were obliged to earn your living. Please haveyourself measured for habit and boots this afternoon. I shall arrangefor horse, saddle, and groom. You will spend most of your time ridingin the Park--for the present."

  "But--Mr. Keen--am I to be one of your agents--a sort of detective?"

  Keen regarded her absently, then crossed one leg over the other.

  "Read me your notes," he said with a smile.

  She read them, folded them, and he took them from her, thoughtfullyregarding her.

  "Did you know that your mother and I were children together?" he asked.

  "No!" She stared. "Is _that_ why you sent for me that day at the schoolof stenography?"

  "That is why . . . When I learned that my playmate--your mother--wasdead, is it not reasonable to suppose that I should wish her daughter tohave a chance?"

  Miss Southerland looked at him steadily.

  "She was like you--when she married . . . I never married . . . Do youwonder that I sent for you, child?"

  Nothing but the clock ticking there in the sunny room, and an old manstaring into two dimmed brown eyes, and the little breezes at the openwindow whispering of summers past.

  "This young man, Gatewood," said the Tracer, clearing his voice of itshoarseness--"this young man ought to be all right, if I did notmisjudge his father--years ago, child, years ago. And he _is_ allright--" He half turned toward a big letter-file; "his record is clean,so far. The trouble with him is idleness. He ought to marry."

  "Isn't he trying to?" she asked.

  "It looks like it. Miss Southerland, we _must_ find this woman!"

  "Yes, but I don't see how you are going to--on such slightinformation--"

  "Information! Child, I have all I want--all I could desire." He laughed,passing his hands over his gray hair. "We are going to find the girl heis in love with before the week ends!"

  "Do you really think so?" she exclaimed.

  "Yes. But you must do a great deal in this case."

  "I?"

  "_Ex_actly."

  "And--and what am I to do?"

  "Ride in the Park, child! And if you see Mr. Gatewood, don't you daretake your eyes off him for one moment. Watch him; observe everything hedoes. If he should recognize you and speak to you, be as amiable to himas though it were not by my orders."

  "Then--then I _am_ to be a detective!" she faltered.

  The Tracer did not appear to hear her. He took up the notes, turned tothe telephone, and began to send out a general alarm, reading thedescription of the person whom Gatewood had described. The vast,intricate and delicate machinery under his control was being set inmotion all over the Union.

  "Not that I expect to find her outside the borough of Manhattan," hesaid, smiling, as he hung up the receiver and turned to her; "but it'sas 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 browneyes and 'gleams' in the hair."

  Miss Southerland, to her own intense consternation, blushed.

  "I think you had better order that habit at once," said the Tracercarelessly.

  "Tell me, Mr. Keen," she asked tremulously, "am I to spy upon Mr.Gatewood? And report to you? . . . For I simply cannot bear to do it--"

  "Child, you need report nothing unless you desire to. And when there issomething to report, it will be about the woman I am searching for._Don't_ you understand? I have already located her. You will find herin the Park. And when you are _sure_ she is the right one--and if youcare to report it to me--I shall be ready to listen . . . I am alwaysready to listen to you."

  "But--I warn you, Mr. Keen, that I have perfect faith in the honor ofMr. Gatewood. I _know_ that I could have nothing unworthy to report."

  "I am sure of it," said the Tracer of Lost Persons, studying her witheyes that were not quite clear. "Now, I think you had better order thathabit . . . Your mother sat her saddle perfectly . . . We rode veryoften--my lost playmate and I."

  He turned, hands clasped behind his back, absently pacing the room,backward, forward, there in the spring sunshine. Nor did he notice herlingering, nor mark her as she stole from the room, brown eyes saddenedand thoughtful, wondering, too, that there should be in the world somuch room for sorrow
.

  "'I am sure of it,' said the Tracer of Lost Persons."]