The Tracer of Lost Persons Part 2

Every day for years he had had glimpses of girls whose hair, hands, figures, eyes, hats, carriage, resembled the features required by his ideal; there always was something wrong 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, he had never before experienced.

"I do want to love _somebody_!" he found himself saying half aloud; "I want to marry; I--" He turned to look after three pretty children with their maids--"I want several like those--several!--seven--ten--I don't care how many! I want a house to worry me, just as Tommy described it; I 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 realized he had been covertly hunting for it; he also realized that he was going to climb the stairs. He hadn't quite decided what he meant to do after that; nor was his mind clear on the matter when he found himself opening a door of opaque gla.s.s on which was printed in red:

KEEN & CO.

He was neither embarra.s.sed nor nervous when he found himself in a big carpeted anteroom where a negro attendant bowed him to a seat and took his card; and he looked calmly around to see what was to be seen.

Several people occupied easy chairs in various parts of the room--an old woman very neatly dressed, clutching in her withered hand a photograph which she studied and studied with tear-dimmed eyes; a young man wearing last year's most fashionable styles in everything except his features: and soap could have aided him there; two 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 clothing under one arm.

Through an open door he saw a dozen young women garbed in black, with white cuffs and collars, all rattling away steadily at typewriters.

Every now and then, from some hidden office, a bell rang decisively, and one of the girls would rise from her machine and pa.s.s noiselessly out of sight to obey the summons. From time to time, too, the darky servant with marvelous manners would usher somebody through the room where the typewriters were rattling, into the unseen office. First the old woman went--shakily, clutching her photograph; then the thin child with the bundle, staring at everything; then the two fat policemen, in portentous single file, helmets in their white-gloved hands, oiled hair glistening.

Gatewood's turn was approaching; he waited without any definite emotion, watching newcomers enter to take the places of those who had been summoned. He hadn't the slightest idea of what he 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 & CO.

TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

_Keen & 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._

WESTREL KEEN, _Manager_.

"Mistuh Keen will see you, suh," came a persuasive voice at his elbow; and he rose and followed the softly moving colored servant out of the room, through a labyrinth of demure young women at their typewriters, then sharply to the right and into a big, handsomely furnished office, where a sleepy-looking elderly gentleman rose from an armchair and bowed. There could not be the slightest doubt that he _was_ a gentleman; every movement, every sound he uttered, settled the fact.

"Mr. Keen?"

"Mr. Gatewood?"--with 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, whom you are not likely to find."

"I doubt it," said Keen pleasantly.

Gatewood 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. "Unless we find the person sought for, we make no charges, Mr. Gatewood."

"I must ask you to do so in my 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?"

"What 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 unbusinesslike 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 degrade," replied the young man, laughing.

The elderly gentleman sat silent, apparently buried in meditation. Once or twice his pleasant steel-gray eyes wandered over Gatewood as an expert, a connoisseur, glances at a picture and a.s.similates its history, its value, its artistic merit, its every detail in one practiced glance.

"I think we may take up this matter for you, Mr. Gatewood," he said, smiling his singularly agreeable smile.

"But--but you would first desire to know something about me--would you not?"

Keen looked at him: "You will not mistake me--you will consider it entirely inoffensive--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 lists and all that--"

"And many, many sources of information which are necessary in such a business as this, Mr. Gatewood. It is a necessity for us to be 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."

"I prefer to regulate any possible indebtedness in advance," said Gatewood.

"As you wish," replied the older man, smiling. "In that case, suppose you draw your check" (he handed Gatewood a fountain pen as the young man fished a check-book from his pocket)--"your check for--well, say for $5,000, to the order of Keen & Co."

Gatewood met his eye without wincing; he was in for it now; and he was always perfectly game. He had brought it upon himself; it was his own proposition. Not that he would have for a moment considered the sum as high--or any sum exorbitant--if there had been a chance of success; one cannot compare and weigh such matters. But how could there be any chance for success?

As he slowly smoothed out the check and stub, pen poised, Keen was saying: "Of course, we should succeed sooner or later--if we took up your case. We might succeed to-morrow--to-day. That 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--"

"Her? How did--_why_ do you say '_her_'?"

"Am I wrong?" asked Keen, smiling.

"No--you are right."

The Tracer of Lost Persons sank into abstraction again. Gatewood waited, hoping that his case might be declined, yet ready to face any music started at his own request.

"She is young," mused Keen aloud, "very beautiful and accomplished. _Is_ she wealthy?" He looked up mildly.

Gatewood said: "I don't know--the truth is I don't care--" And stopped.

"O-ho!" mused Keen slowly. "I--think--I understand. Am I wrong, Mr.

Gatewood, in surmising that this young lady whom you seek is, in your eyes, very--I may say ideally gifted?"

"She is my ideal," replied the young man, coloring.

"_Ex_actly. And--her general allure?"

"Charming!"

"_Ex_actly; but to be a trifle more precise--if you could give me a sketch, an idea, a mere outline delicately tinted, now. _Is_ she more blond than brunette?"

"Yes--but her eyes are brown. I--I insist on that."