The Tracer of Lost Persons Part 6

"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. I--I a.s.sure 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, coloring 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 regretful 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--I will tell you her name and where I first saw her--and where I saw 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, with head still bent, she lifted her mischief-making, 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--I'll ask for you."

"We _could_ write you, Mr. Gatewood."

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 he remained--which was not very long--neither of them spoke until he arose to take his departure.

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

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

And, as a matter of fact, she did not know; she was rather excited over nothing, apparently; and also somewhat preoccupied with several rather disturbing emotions the species of which she was interested in determining. But to label and catalogue each of these emotions separately required privacy and 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 trifle exciting--though but 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 rea.s.sure herself that the dainty pair of shoes she wore, would have baffled the efforts of any Venus ever sculptured. And she 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 realized 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 me--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 he can'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 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 Lost Persons.

"Come in," said the Tracer when she knocked. He 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. Keen.

"Oh--I 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:

"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 to be--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 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 be honest?" 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 tried to!" added Keen hastily as the indignant brown eyes sparkled ominously.

"Really, Miss Southerland, he must be all you say he is, for he has a stanch 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 you perfectly well, Miss Southerland?"

"Why, yes."