The Tracer of Lost Persons | Page 6

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
of Lost Persons.
"I wish you happiness," said the older man in a low voice. "The lady
you describe 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
the room.
"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
the ghost of his ideal had risen to confront him--only for a second; then
he bowed, matching her perfect acknowledgment of his presence by a
bearing and 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
this remarkable elderly gentleman suspect that it was to be a hunt for an
ideal? Had he deliberately entered into such a bargain? Impossible!
His disturbed thoughts reverted to the terms of the bargain, the entire
enterprise, the figures on his check. His own amazing imbecility
appalled him. What idiocy! What sudden madness had seized him to
entangle himself in such unheard-of negotiations! True, he had played
bridge until dawn the night before, but, on awaking, he had discovered

no perceptible hold-over. It must have been sheer weakness of intellect
that permitted him to be dominated by the suggestions of Kerns. And
now the 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 sun
poured a stream of glory, washing curtain, walls, and ceiling with
palest gold.
And all this time, preoccupied with new impressions and his own
growing chagrin, he watched the girl who conducted him with all the
unconscious assurance and grace of a young chatelaine passing through
her own domain under escort of a distinguished guest.
When they had entered Room 19, she half turned, but he forestalled her
and closed the door, and she passed before him with a perceptible
inclination of her finely modeled head, seating herself at the desk by
the open window. He took an armchair at her elbow and removed his
gloves, looking at her expectantly.
CHAPTER III
"This is a list of particular and general questions for you to answer, Mr.
Gatewood," she said, handing him a long slip of printed matter. "The
replies to such questions as you are able or willing to answer you may
dictate to me." The beauty of her modulated voice was scarcely a
surprise--no woman who moved and carried herself as did this tall
young girl in black and white could reasonably be expected to speak
with less distinction--yet the charm of her voice, from the moment her
lips unclosed, so engrossed him that the purport of her speech escaped
him.
"Would you mind saying it once more?" he asked.
She did so; he attempted to concentrate his attention, and succeeded
sufficiently to look as though some vestige of intellect remained in him.

He saw her pick up a pad and pencil; the contour and grace of two
deliciously fashioned hands arrested his mental process once more.
"I beg your pardon," he said hastily; "what were you saying, Miss
Southerland?"
"Nothing, Mr. Gatewood. I did not speak." And he realized, hazily, that
she had not spoken--that it was the subtle eloquence of her youth and
loveliness that had appealed like a sudden voice--a sound faintly
exquisite echoing his own thought of her.
Troubled, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand; it was headed:
SPECIAL DESCRIPTION BLANK (Form K)
And he read it as carefully as he was able to--the curious little clamor
of his pulses, the dazed sense of elation, almost of expectation,
distracting his attention all the time.
"I wish you would read it to me," he said; "that would give me time to
think up answers."
"If you wish," she assented pleasantly, swinging around toward him in
her desk chair. Then she crossed one knee over the other to support the
pad, and, bending above it, lifted her brown eyes. She could have done
nothing in the world more distracting at that moment.
"What is the sex of the person you desire to find, Mr. Gatewood?"
"Her sex? I--well, I fancy it is feminine."
She wrote after "Sex" the words "She is probably feminine";