The Tracer of Lost Persons, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Meanwhile, Gatewood was walking along Fifth Avenue, more or less soothedby the May sunshine. First, he went to his hatters, looked at strawhats, didn't like them, protested, and bought one, wishing he hadstrength of mind enough to wear it home. But he hadn't. Then he enteredthe huge white marble palace of his jeweler, left his watch to beregulated, caught a glimpse of a girl whose hair and neck resembled thehair and neck of his ideal, sidled around until he discovered that shewas chewing gum, and backed off, with a bitter smile, into the avenueonce more.

  Every day for years he had had glimpses of girls whose hair, hands,figures, eyes, hats, carriage, resembled the features required by hisideal; there always was something wrong somewhere. And, as he strolledmoodily, a curious feeling of despair seized him--something that, evenin his most sentimental moments, even amid the most unexpecteddisappointment, he had never before experienced.

  "I do want to love _somebody_!" he found himself saying half aloud; "Iwant to marry; I--" He turned to look after three pretty children withtheir maids--"I want several like those--several!--seven--ten--I don'tcare how many! I want a house to worry me, just as Tommy described it; Iwant to see the same girl across the breakfast table--or she can sip hercocoa in bed if she desires--" A slow, modest blush stole over hisfeatures; it was one of the nicest things he ever did. Glancing up, hebeheld across the way a white sign, ornamented with strenuous crimsonlettering:

  KEEN & CO. TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

  The moment he discovered it, he realized he had been covertly huntingfor it; he also realized that he was going to climb the stairs. Hehadn't quite decided what he meant to do after that; nor was his mindclear on the matter when he found himself opening a door of opaque glasson which was printed in red:

  KEEN & CO.

  He was neither embarrassed nor nervous when he found himself in a bigcarpeted anteroom where a negro attendant bowed him to a seat and tookhis 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 oldwoman very neatly dressed, clutching in her withered hand a photographwhich she studied and studied with tear-dimmed eyes; a young man wearinglast year's most fashionable styles in everything except his features:and soap could have aided him there; two policemen, helmets resting ontheir knees; and, last of all, a rather thin child of twelve, staringopen-mouthed at everybody, a bundle of soiled clothing under one arm.Through an open door he saw a dozen young women garbed in black, withwhite cuffs and collars, all rattling away steadily at typewriters.Every now and then, from some hidden office, a bell rang decisively, andone of the girls would rise from her machine and pass noiselessly out ofsight to obey the summons. From time to time, too, the darky servantwith marvelous manners would usher somebody through the room where thetypewriters were rattling, into the unseen office. First the old womanwent--shakily, clutching her photograph; then the thin child with thebundle, staring at everything; then the two fat policemen, in portentoussingle file, helmets in their white-gloved hands, oiled hair glistening.

  Gatewood's turn was approaching; he waited without any definiteemotion, watching newcomers enter to take the places of those who hadbeen summoned. He hadn't the slightest idea of what he was to say; nordid it worry him. A curious sense of impending good fortune left himpleasantly tranquil; he picked up, from the silver tray on the table athis elbow, one of the firm's business cards, and scanned it withinterest:

  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 theroom, 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 andbowed. There could not be the slightest doubt that he _was_ agentleman; every movement, every sound he uttered, settled the fact.

  "Mr. Keen?"

  "Mr. Gatewood?"--with a quiet certainty which had its charm. "This isvery good of you."

  Gatewood sat down and looked at his host. Then he said: "I'm searchingfor 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 personsought for, we make no charges, Mr. Gatewood."

  "I must ask you to do so in my case. It is not fair that you shouldundertake it on other terms. I desire to make a special arrangement withyou. Do you mind?"

  "What arrangement had you contemplated?" inquired Keen, amused.

  "Only this: charge me in advance exactly what you would charge ifsuccessful. And, on the other hand, do not ask me for detailedinformation--I mean, do not insist on any information that I decline togive. Do you mind taking up such an extraordinary and unbusinesslikeproposition, 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. Onceor twice his pleasant steel-gray eyes wandered over Gatewood as anexpert, a connoisseur, glances at a picture and assimilates 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 younot?"

  Keen looked at him: "You will not mistake me--you will consider itentirely inoffensive--if I say that I know something about you, Mr.Gatewood?"

  "About _me_? How can you? Of course, there is the social register andthe club lists and all that--"

  "And many, many sources of information which are necessary in such abusiness as this, Mr. Gatewood. It is a necessity for us to be almostas well informed as our clients' own lawyers. I could pay you nosincerer compliment than to undertake your case. I am half inclined todo 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," saidGatewood.

  "As you wish," replied the older man, smiling. "In that case, supposeyou draw your check" (he handed Gatewood a fountain pen as the young manfished 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 wasalways perfectly game. He had brought it upon himself; it was his ownproposition. Not that he would have for a moment considered the sum ashigh--or any sum exorbitant--if there had been a chance of success; onecannot compare and weigh such matters. But how could there be any chancefor success?

  As he slowly smoothed out the check and stub, pen poised, Keen wassaying: "Of course, we should succeed sooner or later--if we took upyour case. We might succeed to-morrow--to-day. That would mean a largeprofit for us. But we might not succeed to-day, or next month, or evennext year. That would leave us little or no profit; and, as it is ourcustom 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 mighteven 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 musicstarted 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 youreyes, 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 asketch, an idea, a mere outline delicately tinted, now. _Is_ she moreblond than brunette?"

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

  "Why should you not? _You_ know her; I don't," said Keen, laughing. "Imerely wished to form a mental picture. . . . You say her hair is--is--"

  "It's full of sunny color; that's all I can say."

  "_Ex_actly--I see. A rare and lovely combination with brown eyes andcreamy skin, Mr. Gatewood. I fancy she might be, perhaps, an inch or twounder your height?"

  "Just about that. Her hands should be--_are_ beautiful--"

  "_Ex_actly. The ensemble is most vividly portrayed, Mr. Gatewood;and--you have intimated that her lack of fortune--er--we might almostsay her pecuniary distress--is more than compensated for by heraccomplishments, character, and very unusual beauty. . . . _Did_ I sounderstand you, Mr. Gatewood?"

  "That's what I meant, anyhow," he said, flushing up.

  "You _did_ mean it?"

  "I did: I do."

  "Then we take your case, Mr. Gatewood. . . . No haste about the check,my dear sir--pray consider us at your service."

  But Gatewood doggedly filled in the check and handed it to the Tracer ofLost Persons.

  "I wish you happiness," said the older man in a low voice. "The lady youdescribe exists; it is for us to discover her."

  "Thank you," stammered Gatewood, astounded.

  Keen touched an electric button; a moment later a young girl entered theroom.

  "Miss Southerland, Mr. Gatewood. Will you be kind enough to take Mr.Gatewood's dictation in Room 19?"

  For a second Gatewood stared--as though in the young girl before him theghost of his ideal had risen to confront him--only for a second; then hebowed, matching her perfect acknowledgment of his presence by a bearingand 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 thisremarkable elderly gentleman suspect that it was to be a hunt for anideal? Had he deliberately entered into such a bargain? Impossible!

  His disturbed thoughts reverted to the terms of the bargain, the entireenterprise, the figures on his check. His own amazing imbecilityappalled him. What idiocy! What sudden madness had seized him toentangle himself in such unheard-of negotiations! True, he had playedbridge until dawn the night before, but, on awaking, he had discoveredno perceptible hold-over. It must have been sheer weakness of intellectthat permitted him to be dominated by the suggestions of Kerns. And nowthe game was on: the jack declared, cards dealt, and his ante was up.Had he openers?

  Room 19, duly labeled 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 sunpoured a stream of glory, washing curtain, walls, and ceiling withpalest gold.

  And all this time, preoccupied with new impressions and his own growingchagrin, he watched the girl who conducted him with all the unconsciousassurance and grace of a young chatelaine passing through her own domainunder escort of a distinguished guest.

  When they had entered Room 19, she half turned, but he forestalled herand closed the door, and she passed before him with a perceptibleinclination of her finely modeled head, seating herself at the desk bythe open window. He took an armchair at her elbow and removed hisgloves, looking at her expectantly.