The Tracer of Lost Persons | Page 4

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 off, with a bitter smile, into the avenue
once more.
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 glass on
which was printed in red:
KEEN & CO.
He was neither embarrassed 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 pass 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.