In the meanwhile, at the other end of the wire, Mr. Keen, the Tracer of Lost Persons, was preparing to trace for Mr. Kerns, against that gentleman's will, the true happiness which Mr. Kerns had never been able to find for himself.
He sat in his easy chair within the four walls of his own office, inspecting a line of people who stood before him on the carpet forming a single and attentive rank. In this rank were five men: a policeman, a cab driver, an agent of the telephone company, an agent of the electric company, and a reformed burglar carrying a kit of his trade tools.
The Tracer of Lost Persons gazed at them, meditatively joining the tips of his thin fingers.
"I want the number on 36 East Eighty-third Street changed to No. 38, and the number 38 replaced by No. 36," he said to the policeman. "I want it done at once. Get a glazier and go up there and have it finished in an hour. Mrs. Kenna, caretaker at No. 36, is in my pay; she will not interfere. There is nobody in No. 38: Mr. Kerns leaves there to-night and the Burglar Alarm Company takes charge to-morrow."
And, turning to the others: "You," nodding at the reformed burglar, "know your duty. Mike!" to the cab driver, "don't miss Mr. Kerns at the Lenox Club. If he calls you before eleven, drive into the park and have an accident. And you," to the agent of the telephone company, "will sever all telephone connection in Mrs. Stanley's house; and you," to the official of the electric company, "will see that the circuit in Mrs. Stanley's house is cut so that no electric light may be lighted and no electric bell sound."
The Tracer of Lost Persons stroked his gray mustache thoughtfully. "And that," he ended, "will do, I think. Good night."
He rose and stood by the door as the policeman headed the solemn file which marched out to their duty; then he looked at his watch, and, as it was already a few minutes after eight, he called up No. 36 East Eighty-third Street, and in a moment more had Mrs. Stanley on the wire.
"Good evening," he said pleasantly. "I suppose you have just arrived from Rosylyn. I may be a little late—I may be very late, in fact, so I called you up to say so. And I wished to say another thing; to ask you whether your servants could recollect ever having seen a young man about the place, a rather attractive young man with excellent address and manners, five feet eleven inches, slim but well built, dark hair, dark eyes, and dark mustache, offering samples of Georgia marble for sale."
"Really, Mr. Keen," replied a silvery voice, "I have heard them say nothing about such an individual. If you will hold the wire I will ask my maid." And, after a pause: "No, Mr. Keen, my maid cannot remember any such person. Do you think he was a confederate of that wretched butler of mine?"
"I am scarcely prepared to say that; in fact," added Mr. Keen, "I haven't the slightest idea that this young man could have been concerned in anything of that sort. Only, if you should ever by any chance see such a man, detain him if possible until you can communicate with me; detain him by any pretext, by ruse, by force if you can, only detain him until I can get there. Will you do this?"
"Certainly, Mr. Keen, if I can. Please describe him again?"
Mr. Keen did so minutely.
"You say he sells Georgia marble by samples, which he carries in a suit case?"
"Hesaysthat he has samples of Georgia marble in his suit case," replied the Tracer cautiously. "It might be well, if possible, to see what he has in his suit case."
"I will warn the servants as soon as I return to Rosylyn. When may I expect you this evening, Mr. Keen?"
"It is impossible to say, Mrs. Stanley. If I am not there by midnight I shall try to call next morning."
So they exchanged civil adieus; the Tracer hung up his receiver and leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself.
"Curious," he said, "that chance should have sent that pretty woman to me at such a time. . . . Kernsisa fine fellow, every inch of him. It hit him hard when he crossed with her to Southampton six years ago; it hit him harder when she married that Englishman. I don't wonder he never cared to marry after that brief week of her society; for she is just about the most charming woman I have ever met—red hair and all. . . . And if quick action is what is required, it's well to break the ice between them at once with a dreadful misunderstanding."
The dinner that Kerns had planned for himself and Gatewood was an ingenious one, cunningly contrived to discontent Gatewood with home fare and lure him by its seductive quality into frequent revisits to the club which was responsible for such delectable wines and viands.
A genial glow already enveloped Gatewood and pleasantly suffused Kerns. From time to time they held some rare vintage aloft, squinting through the crystal-imprisoned crimson with deep content.
"Not thatmyword is necessarily thelastword concerning Burgundy," said Gatewood modestly; "but I venture to doubt that any club in America can match this bottle, Kerns."
"Now, Jack," wheedled Kerns, "isn't it pleasant to dine here once in a while? Be frank, man! Look about at the other tables—at all the pleasant, familiar faces—the same fine fellows, bless 'em—the same smoky old ceiling, the same bum portraits of dead governors, the same old stag heads on the wall. Now, Jack, isn't it mighty pleasant, after all? Be a gentleman and admit it!"
"Y-yes," confessed Gatewood, "it's all right for me once in a while, because I know that I am presently going back to my own home—a jolly lamplit room and the prettiest girl in Manhattan curled up in an armchair—"
"You're fortunate," said Kerns shortly. And for the first time there remained no lurking mockery in his voice; for the first time his retort was tinged with bitterness. But the next instant his eyes glimmered with the same gay malice, and the unbelieving smile twitched at his clean-cut lips, and he raised his hand, touching the short ends of his mustache with that careless, amused cynicism which rather became him.
"All that you picture so entrancingly is forbidden the true believer," he said; and began to repeat:
"'O weaver! weave the flowers of FeraghanInto the fabric that thy birth began;Iris, narcissus, tulips cloud-band tied,These thou shalt picture for the eye of Man;Henna, Herati, and the Jhelums tideIn Sarraband and Saruk be thy guide,And the red dye of Ispahan besideThe checkered Chinese fret of ancient gold;—So heed the ban, old as the law is old,Nor weave into thy warp the laughing face,Nor limb, nor body, nor one line of grace,Nor hint, nor tint, nor any veiled deviceOf Woman who is barred from Paradise!'"
"'O weaver! weave the flowers of FeraghanInto the fabric that thy birth began;Iris, narcissus, tulips cloud-band tied,These thou shalt picture for the eye of Man;Henna, Herati, and the Jhelums tideIn Sarraband and Saruk be thy guide,And the red dye of Ispahan besideThe checkered Chinese fret of ancient gold;—So heed the ban, old as the law is old,Nor weave into thy warp the laughing face,Nor limb, nor body, nor one line of grace,Nor hint, nor tint, nor any veiled deviceOf Woman who is barred from Paradise!'"
"A nice sentiment!" said Gatewood hotly.
"Can't help it; you see I'm forbidden to monkey with the eternal looms or weave the forbidden into the pattern of my life."
Gatewood sat silent for a moment, then looked up at Kerns with something so closely akin to a grin that his friend became interested in its scarcely veiled significance, and grinned in reply.
"So you really expect that your friend, Mr. Keen, is going to marry me to somebody,nolens volens?" asked Kerns.
"I do. That's what I dream of, Tommy."
"My poor friend, dream on!"
"I am. Tommy, you're lost! I mean you're as good as married now!"
"You think so?"
"Iknowit! There you sit, savoring your Burgundy, idling over a cigar, happy, care free, fancy free, at liberty, as you believe, to roam off anywhere at any time and continue the eternal hunt for pleasure! That's what youthink! Ha! Tommy, I know better! That's not the sort of manIsee sitting on the same chair where you are now sprawling in such content! I see a doomed man, already in the shadow of the altar, wasting his time unsuspiciously while Chance comes whirling into the city behind a Long Island locomotive, and Fate, the footman, sits outside ready to follow him, and Destiny awaits him no matter what he does, what he desires, where he goes, wherever he turns to-night! Destiny awaits him at his journey's end!"
"Very fine," said Kerns admiringly. "Too bad it's due to the Burgundy."
"Never mind what my eloquence is due to," retorted Gatewood, "the fact remains that this is probably your last bachelor dinner. Kerns, old fellow! Here's to her! Bless her! I—I wish sincerely that we knew who she is and where to send those roses. Anyway, here's to the bride!"
He stood up very gravely and drank the toast, then, reseating himself, tapped the empty glass gently against the table's edge until it broke.
"You are certainly doing your part well," said Kerns admiringly. Then he swallowed the remainder of his Burgundy and looked up at the club clock.
"Eleven," he said with regret. "I've about time to go to Eighty-third Street, get my suit case, and catch my train at 125th Street." To a servant he said, "Call a hansom," then rose and sauntered downstairs to the cloakroom, where presently both men stood, hatted and gloved, swinging their sticks.
"That was a fool bet you made," began Kerns; "I'll release you, Jack."
"Sorry, but I must insist on holding you," replied Gatewood, laughing. "You're going to your doom. Come on! I'll see you as far as the cab door."
They walked out, and Kerns gave the cabby the street and number and entered the hansom.
"Now," said Gatewood, "you're in for it! You're done for! You can't help yourself! I've won my twelve-gauge trap gun already, and I'll have to set you up in table silver, anyway, so it's an even break. You're all in, Tommy! The Tracer is on your trail!"
In the beginning of a flippant retort Kerns experienced a curious sensation of hesitation. Something in Gatewood's earnestness, in his jeering assurance and delighted certainty, made him, for one moment, feel doubtful, even uncomfortable.
"What nonsense you talk," he said, recovering his equanimity. "Nothing on earth can prevent me driving to 38 East Eighty-third Street, getting my luggage, and taking the Boston express. Your Tracer doesn't intend to stop my hansom and drag me into a cave, does he? You haven't put knock-outs into that Burgundy, have you? Then what in the dickens are you laughing at?"
But Gatewood, on the sidewalk under the lamplight, was still laughing as Kerns drove away, for he had recognized in the cab driver a man he had seen in Mr. Kern's office, and he knew that the Tracer of Lost Persons had Kerns already well in hand.
The hansom drove on through the summer darkness between rows of electric globes drooping like huge white moon flowers from their foliated bronze stalks, on up the splendid avenue, past the great brilliantly illuminated hotels, past the white cathedral, past clubs and churches and the palaces of the wealthy; on, on along the park wall edged by its double rows of elms under which shadowy forms moved—lovers strolling in couples.
"Pooh," sniffed Kerns, "the whole world has gone love mad, and I'm the only sane man left."
But he leaned back in his cab and fell a-thinking of a thin girl with red hair and great gray eyes—a thin, frail creature, scarcely more than a child, who had held him for a week in a strange sorcery only to release him with a frightened smile, leaving her indelible impression upon his life forever.
And, thinking, he looked up, realizing that the cab had stopped in East Eighty-third Street before one of a line of brownstone houses, all externally alike.
Then he leaned out and saw that the house number was thirty-eight. That was the number of the Lees' house; he descended, bade the cabman await him, and, producing his latch key, started up the steps, whistling gayly.
But he didn't require his key, for, as he reached the front door, he found, to his surprise and concern, that it swung partly open—just a mere crack.
"The mischief!" he muttered; "could I have failed to close it? Could anybody have seen it and crept in?"
He entered the hallway hastily and pressed the electric knob. No light appeared in the sconces.
"What the deuce!" he murmured; "something wrong with the switch!" And he hurriedly lighted a match and peered into the darkness. By the vague glimmer of the burning match he could distinguish nothing. He listened intently, tried the electric switch again without success. The match burned his fingers and he dropped it, watching the last red spark die out in the darkness.
Something about the shadowy hallway seemed unfamiliar; he went to the door, stepped out on the stoop, and looked up at the number on the transom. It was thirty-eight; no doubt about the house. Hesitating, he glanced around to see that his hansom was still there. It had disappeared.
"What an idiot that cabman is!" he exclaimed, intensely annoyed at the prospect of lugging his heavy suit case to a Madison Avenue car and traveling with it to Harlem.
He looked up and down the dimly lighted street; east, an electric car glided down Madison Avenue; west, the lights of Fifth Avenue glimmered against the dark foliage of the Park. He stood a moment, angry at the desertion of his cabman, then turned and reëntered the dark hall, closing the door behind him.
Up the staircase he felt his way to the first landing, and, lighting a match, looked for the electric button.
"Am I crazy, or was there no electric button in this hall?" he thought. The match burned low; he had to drop it. Perplexed, he struck another match and opened the door leading into the front room, and stood on the threshold a moment, looking about him at the linen-shrouded furniture and pictures. This front room, closed for the summer, he had not before entered, but he stepped in now, poking about for any possible intruder, lighting match after match.
"I suppose I ought to go over this confounded house inch by inch," he murmured. "What could have possessed me to leave the front door ajar this morning?"
For an instant he thought that perhaps Mrs. Nolan, the woman who came in the morning to make his bed, might have left the door open, but he knew that couldn't be so, because he always waited for her to finish her work and leave before he went out. So either he must have left the door open, or some marauder had visited the house—was perhaps at that moment in the house! And it was his duty to find out.
"I'd better be about it, too," he thought savagely, "or I'll never make my train."
He struck his last match, looked around, and, seeing gas jets among the clustered electric bulbs of the sconces, tried to light one and succeeded.
He had left his suit case in the passageway between the front and rear rooms, and now, cautiously, stick in hand, he turned toward the dim corridor leading to the bedroom. There was his suit case, anyway! He picked it up and started to push open the door of the rear room; but at the same time, and before he could lay his hand on the knob, the door before him opened suddenly in a flood of light, and a woman stood there, dark against the gas-lit glare, a pistol waveringly extended in the general direction of his head.
"Good heavens!" he said, appalled, and dropped his suit case with a crash.
"W-what are you d-doing—" She controlled her voice and the wavering weapon with an effort. "What are you doing in this house?"
"Doing? Inthishouse?" he repeated, his eyes protruding in the direction of the unsteady pistol muzzle. "What areyoudoing in this house—if you don't mind saying!"
"I—I m-must ask you to put up your hands," she said. "If you move I shall certainly s-shoot off this pistol."
"It will go off, anyway, if you handle it like that!" he said, exasperated. "What do you mean by pointing it at me?"
"I mean to fire it off in a few moments if you don't raise your hands above your head!"
He looked at the pistol; it was new and shiny; he looked at the athletic young figure silhouetted against the brilliant light.
"Well, if you make a point of it, of course." He slowly held up both hands, higher, then higher still. "Upon my word!" he breathed. "Held up by a woman!" And he said aloud, bitterly: "No doubt you have assistance close at hand."
"No doubt," she said coolly. "What have you been packing into that valise?"
"P-packing intowhat? Oh, into that suit case? That is my suit case."
"Of course it is," she said quietly, "but what have you inside it?"
"Nothingyouor your friends would care for," he said meaningly.
"I must be the judge of that," she retorted. "Please open that suit case."
"How can I if my hands are in the air?" he expostulated, now intensely interested in the novelty of being held up by this graceful and vaguely pretty silhouette.
"You may lower your arms to unpack the suit case," she said.
"I—I had rather not if you are going to keep me covered with your pistol."
"Of course I shall keep you covered. Unpack your booty at once!"
"My—what?"
"Booty."
"Madam, do you takemefor a thief? Have you, by chance, entered the wrong house? I—I cannot reconcile your voice with what I am forced to consider you—a housebreaker—"
"We will discuss that later. Unpack that bag!" she insisted.
"But—but there is nothing in it except samples of marble—"
"What!" she exclaimed nervously. "Whatdid you say? Samples ofmarble?"
"Marble, madam! Georgia marble!"
"Oh! Soyouare the young man who goes about pretending to peddle Georgia marble from samples! Are you? The famous marble man I have heard of."
"I? Madam, I don't know what you mean!"
"Come!" she said scornfully; "let me see the contents of that suit case. I—I am not afraid of you; I am not a bit afraid of you. And I shall catch your accomplice, too."
"Madam, you speak like an honest woman! Youmusthave managed to enter the wrong house. This is number thirty-eight, where I live."
"It is number thirty-six; my house!"
"But Iknowit is number thirty-eight; Mr. Lee's house," he protested hopefully. "This is some dreadful mistake."
"Mr. Lee's house is next door," she said. "Do you not suppose I know my own house? Besides, I have been warned against a plausible young man who pretends he has Georgia marble to sell—"
"There is a dreadful mistake somewhere," he insisted. "Please p-p-put up your p-pistol and aid me to solve it. I am no robber, madam. I thought at first that you were. I'm living in Mr. Lee's house, No. 38 East Eighty-third Street, and I've looked carefully at the number over the door of this house and the number is thirty-eight, and the street is East Eighty-third. So I naturally conclude that I am in Mr. Lee's house."
"Your arguments and your conclusions are very plausible," she said, "but, fortunately for me, I have been expressly warned against a young man of your description.Youare the marble man!"
"It's a mistake! A very dreadful one."
"Then how did you enter this house?"
"I have a key—I mean I found the front door unlatched. Please don't misunderstand me; I know it sounds unconvincing, but I really have a key to number thirty-eight."
He attempted to reach for his pocket and the pistol glittered in his face.
"Won't you let me prove my innocence?" he asked.
"You can't prove it by showing me a key. Besides, it's probably a weapon. Anyhow, if, as you pretend, you have managed to get into the wrong house, why did you bring that suit case up here?"
"It was here. It's mine. I left it here in this passageway."
"Inmyhouse?" she asked incredulously.
"In number thirty-eight; that is all I know. I'll open the suit case if you will let me. I have already described its contents. If it has samples of marble in it youmustbe convinced!"
"It will convince me that it is your valise. But what of that? I know it is yours already," she said defiantly. "I know, at least, that you are the marble man—if nothing worse!"
"But malefactors don't go about carrying samples of Georgia marble," he protested, dropping on one knee under the muzzle of her revolver and tugging at the straps and buckles. In a second or two he threw open the case—and the sight of the contents staggered him. For there, thrown in pellmell among small square blocks of polished marble was a complete kit of burglar's tools, including also a mask, a dark lantern, and a blackjack.
"What—w—w—what on earth is this?" he stammered. "These things don't belong to me. I won't have them! I don't want them. Who put them into my suit case? How the deuce—"
"Youarethe marble man!" she said with a shudder. "Your crimes are known! Your wretched accomplice will be caught! You are the marble man—or something worse!"
Kneeling there, aghast, bewildered, he passed his hand across his eyes as though to clear them from some terrible vision. But the suit case was still there with its incriminating contents when he looked again.
"I am sorry for you," she said tremulously. "I—if it were not for the marble—I would let you go. But you are the marble man!"
"Yes, and I'm probably a madman, too. I don't know what I am! I don't know what is happening to me. I ought to be going, that is all I know—"
"I cannot let you go."
"But I must! I've got to catch a train."
The feebleness of his excuse chilled her pity.
"I shall not let you go," she said, resting the hand which held the pistol on her hip, but keeping him covered. "I know you came to rob my house; I know you are a thoroughly bad and depraved young man, but for all that I could find it in my heart to let you go if you were not also themarble man!"
"What on earth is the marble man?" he asked, exasperated.
"I don't know. I have been earnestly warned against him. Probably he is a relative of my butler—"
"I'm not a relative of anybody's butler!"
"Yousayyou are not. How do I know? I—I will make you an offer. I will give you one last chance. If you will return to me the jewels that my butler took—"
"Good heavens, madam! Do you really take me for a professional burglar?"
"How can I help it?" she said indignantly. "Look at your suit case full of lanterns and masks—full ofmarble, too!"
Speechless, he stared at the burglar's kit.
"I am sorry—" Her voice had altered again to a tremulous sweetness. "I can't help feeling sorry for you. You do not seem to be hardened; your voice and manner are not characteristically criminal. I—I can't see your face very clearly, but it does not seem to be a brutally inhuman face—"
An awful desire to laugh seized Kerns; he struggled against it; hysteria lay that way; and he covered his face with both hands and pinched himself.
She probably mistook the action for the emotion of shame and despair born of bitter grief; perhaps of terror of the law. It frightened her a little, but pity dominated. She could scarcely endure to do what she must do.
"This is dreadful, dreadful!" she faltered. "If you only would give me back my jewels—"
Sounds, hastily smothered, escaped him. She believed them to be groans, and it made her slightly faint.
"I—I've simply got to telephone for the police," she said pityingly. "I must ask you to sit down there and wait—there is a chair. Sit there—and please don't move, for I—this has unnerved me—I am not accustomed to doing cruel things; and if you should move too quickly or attempt to run away I feel certain that this pistol would explode."
"Are you going to telephone?" he asked.
"Yes, I am."
She backed away, cautiously, pistol menacing him, reached for the receiver, and waited for Central. She waited a long time before she realized that the telephone as well as the electric light was out of commission.
"Didyoucut all these wires?" she demanded angrily.
"I? What wires?"
She reached out and pressed the electric button which should have rung a bell in her maid's bedroom on the top floor. She kept her finger on the button for ten minutes. It was useless.
"You laid deliberate plans to rob this house," she said, her cheeks pink with indignation. "I am not a bit sorry for you. I shallnotlet you go! I shall sit here until somebody comes to my assistance, if I have to sit here for weeks and weeks!"
"If you'd let me telephone to my club—" he began.
"Your club! You are very plausible. You didn't offer to call up any club until you found that the telephone was not working!"
He thought a moment. "I don't suppose you would trust me to go out and get a policeman?"
"Certainly not."
"Or go into the front room and open a window and summon some passer-by?"
"How do I know you haven't confederates waiting outside?"
"That's true," he said seriously.
There was a silence. Her nerves seemed to trouble her, for she began to pace to and fro in front of the passageway where he sat comfortably on his chair, arms folded, one knee dropped over the other.
The light being behind her he could not as yet distinguish her features very clearly. Her figure was youthful, slender, yet beautifully rounded; her head charming in contour. He watched her restlessly walking on the floor, small hand clutching the pistol resting on her hip.
The ruddy burnished glimmer on the edges of her hair he supposed, at first, was caused by the strong light behind her.
"This is atrocious!" she murmured, halting to confront him. "How dared you sever every electric connection in my house?"
As she spoke she stepped backward a pace or two, resting herself for a moment against the footboard of the bed—full in the gaslight. And he saw her face.
For a moment he studied her; an immense wave of incredulity swept over him—of wild unbelief, slowly changing to the astonishment of dawning conviction. Astounded, silent, he stared at her from his shadowy corner; and after a while his pulses began to throb and throb and hammer, and the clamoring confusion of his senses seemed to deafen him.
"'This is atrocious,' she murmured, halting to confront him."
"'This is atrocious,' she murmured, halting to confront him."
"'This is atrocious,' she murmured, halting to confront him."
"'This is atrocious,' she murmured, halting to confront him."
She rested a moment or two against the footboard of the bed, her big gray eyes fixed on his vague and shadowy form.
"This won't do," she said.
"No," he said, "it won't do."
He spoke very quietly, very gently. She detected the alteration in his voice and started slightly, as though the distant echo of a familiar voice had sounded.
"What did you say?" she asked, coming nearer, pistol glittering in advance.
"I said 'It won't do.' I don't know what I meant by it. If I meant anything I was wrong. Itwilldo. The situation is perfectly agreeable to me."
"Insolence will not help you," she said sharply. And under the sharpness he detected the slightest quaver of a new alarm.
"I am going to free myself," he said coolly.
"If you move I shall certainly shoot!" she retorted.
"I am going to move—but only my lips. I have only to move my lips to free myself."
"I should scarcely advise you to trust to your eloquence. I have been duly warned, you see."
"Who warned you?" he asked curiously. And, as she disdained to reply: "Never mind. We can clear that up later. Now let me ask you something."
"You are scarcely in a position to ask questions," she said.
"May I not speak to you?"
"Is it necessary?"
He thought a moment. "No, not necessary. Nothing is in this life, you know. I thought differently once. Once—when I was younger—six years younger—I thought happiness was necessary. I found that a man might live without it."
She stood gazing at him through the shadows, pistol on hip.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean that happiness is not necessary to life. Life goes on all the same. My life has continued for six years without that happiness which some believe to be essential."
After a silence she said: "I can tell by the way you speak that you are well born. I—I dread to do what I simply must do."
He, too, sat silent a long time—long enough for an utterly perverse and whimsical humor to take complete possession of him.
"Won'tyou let me go—thistime?" he pleaded.
"I cannot."
"You had better let me go while you can," he said, "because, perhaps, you may find it difficult to get rid of me later."
Affronted, she shrank back from the doorway and stood in the center of her room, angry, disdainful, beautiful, under the ruddy glory of her lustrous hair.
His perverse mood changed, too; he leaned forward, studying her minutely—the splendid gray eyes, the delicate mouth and nose, the full, sweet lips, the witchery of wrist and hand, and the flowing, rounded outline of limb and body under the pretty gown. Could this beshe? This lovely, mature woman, wearing scarcely a trace of the young girl he had never forgotten—scarcely a trace save in the beauty of her eyes and hair—save in the full, red mouth, sweet and sensitive even in its sudden sullenness?
"Once," he said, and his voice sounded to him like voices heard in dreams—"once, years and years ago, there was a steamer, and a man and a young girl on board. Do you mind my telling you about it?"
She stood leaning against the footboard of the bed, not even deigning to raise her eyes in reply. So he made the slightest stir in his chair; and then she looked up quickly enough, pistol poised.
"The steamer," said Kerns slowly, "was coming into Southampton—six years ago. On deck these two people stood—a man of twenty-eight, a girl of eighteen—six years ago. The name of the steamer was theCarnatic. Did you ever hear of that ship?"
She was looking at him attentively. He waited for her reply; she made none; and he went on.
"The man had asked the girl something—I don't know what—I don't know why her gray eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was because she could not do what the man asked her to do. It may have been to love him; it may have been that he was asking her to marry him and that she couldn't. Perhaps that is why there were tears in her eyes—because she may have been sorry to cause him the pain of refusal—sorry, perhaps, perhaps a little guilty. Because she must have seen that he was falling in love with her, and she—she let him—knowing all the time that she was to marry another man. Did you ever hear of that man before?"
She had straightened up, quivering, wide eyed, lips parted. He rose and walked slowly into her room, confronting her under the full glare of light.
Her pistol fell clattering to the floor. It did not explode because it was not loaded.
"Now," he said unsteadily, "will you give me my freedom? I have waited for it—not minutes—but years—six years. I ask it now—the freedom I enjoyed before I ever saw you. Can you give it back to me? Can you restore to me a capacity for happiness? Can you give me a heart to love with—love some woman, as other men love? Is it very much I ask of you—to give me a chance in life—the chance I had before I ever saw you?"
Her big gray eyes seemed fascinated; he looked deep into them, smiling; and she turned white.
"Will you give me what I ask?" he said, still smiling.
She strove to speak; she could not, but her eyes never faltered. Suddenly the color flooded her neck and cheeks to the hair, and the quick tears glimmered.
"I—I did not understand; I was too young to be cruel," she faltered. "How could I know what I was doing? Or what—what you did?"
"I? Toyou?"
"Y-yes. Did you think that I escaped heart free? Do you realize whatmypunishment was—to—to marry—andremember! If I was too young, too inexperienced to know what I was doing, I was not too young to suffer for it!"
"You mean—" He strove to control his voice, but the sweet, fearless gray eyes met his; the old flame leaped in his veins. He reached out to steady himself and his hand touched hers—that soft, white hand that had held him all these years in the hollow of its palm.
"Did youeverlove me?" he demanded.
Her eyes, wet with tears, met his straight as the starry gaze of a child.
"Yes," she said.
His hand tightened over hers; she swayed a moment, quivering from head to foot; then drawing a quick, sobbing breath, closed her eyes, imprisoned in his arms; and, after a long while, aroused, she looked up at him, her divine eyes unclosing dreamily.
"Somebody is hammering at the front door," he breathed. "Listen!"
"I hear. I believe it must be the Tracer of Lost Persons."
"What?"
"Only a Mr. Keen."
"O Lord!" said Kerns faintly, and covered his face with her fragrant hands.
Very tenderly, very gravely, she drew her hands away, and, laying them on his shoulders, looked up at him.
"You—you know what there is in your suit case," she faltered; "areyou a burglar, dear?"
"Ask the Tracer of Lost Persons," said Kerns gently, "what sort of a criminal I am!"
They stood together for one blissful moment listening to the loud knocking below, then, hand in hand, they descended the dark stairway to admit the Tracer of Lost Persons.
On the thirteenth day of March, 1906, Kerns received the following cable from an old friend:
"Is there anybody in New York who can find two criminals for me? I don't want to call in the police."J.T. BURKE."
"Is there anybody in New York who can find two criminals for me? I don't want to call in the police.
"J.T. BURKE."
To which Kerns replied promptly:
"Wire Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, N.Y."
"Wire Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, N.Y."
And a day or two later, being on his honeymoon, he forgot all about his old friend Jack Burke.
On the fifteenth day of March, 1906, Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, received the following cablegram from Alexandria, Egypt:
"Keen, Tracer, New York:—Locate Joram Smiles, forty, stout, lame, red hair, ragged red mustache, cast in left eye, pallid skin; carries one crutch; supposed to have arrived in America per S. S.Scythian Queen, with man known as Emanuel Gandon, swarthy, short, fat, light bluish eyes, Eurasian type."I will call on you at your office as soon as my steamer,Empress of Babylon, arrives. If you discover my men, keep them under surveillance, but on no account call in police. Spare no expense. Dundas, Gray & Co. are my bankers and reference."JOHN TEMPLETON BURKE."
"Keen, Tracer, New York:—Locate Joram Smiles, forty, stout, lame, red hair, ragged red mustache, cast in left eye, pallid skin; carries one crutch; supposed to have arrived in America per S. S.Scythian Queen, with man known as Emanuel Gandon, swarthy, short, fat, light bluish eyes, Eurasian type.
"I will call on you at your office as soon as my steamer,Empress of Babylon, arrives. If you discover my men, keep them under surveillance, but on no account call in police. Spare no expense. Dundas, Gray & Co. are my bankers and reference.
"JOHN TEMPLETON BURKE."
On Monday, April 2d, a few minutes after eight o'clock in the morning, the card of Mr. John Templeton Burke was brought to Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, and a moment later a well-built, wiry, sun-scorched young man was ushered into Mr. Keen's private office by a stenographer prepared to take minutes of the interview.
The first thing that the Tracer of Lost Persons noted in his visitor was his mouth; the next his eyes. Both were unmistakably good—the eyes which his Creator had given him looked people squarely in the face at every word; the mouth, which a man's own character fashions agreeably or mars, was pleasant, but firm when the trace of the smile lurking in the corners died out.
There were dozens of other external characteristics which Mr. Keen always looked for in his clients; and now the rapid exchange of preliminary glances appeared to satisfy both men, for they advanced toward each other and exchanged a formal hand clasp.
"Have you any news for me?" asked Burke.
"I have," said the Tracer. "There are cigars on the table beside you—matches in that silver case. No, I never smoke; but I like the aroma—and I like to watch men smoke. Do you know, Mr. Burke, that no two men smoke in the same fashion? There is as much character in the manner of holding a cigar as there is difference in the technic of artists."
Burke nodded, amused, but, catching sight of the busy stenographer, his bronzed features became serious, and he looked at Mr. Keen inquiringly.
"It is my custom," said the Tracer. "Do you object to my stenographer?"
Burke looked at the slim young girl in her black gown and white collar and cuffs. Then, very simply, he asked her pardon for objecting to her presence, but said that he could not discuss his case if she remained. So she rose, with a humorous glance at Mr. Keen; and the two men stood up until she had vanished, then reseated themselvesvis-a-vis. Mr. Keen calmly dropped his elbow on the concealed button which prepared a hidden phonograph for the reception of every word that passed between them.
"What news have you for me, Mr. Keen?" asked the younger man with that same directness which the Tracer had already been prepared for, and which only corroborated the frankness of eyes and voice.
"My news is brief," he said. "I have both your men under observation."
"Already?" exclaimed Burke, plainly unprepared. "Do you actually mean that I can see these men whenever I desire to do so? Are these scoundrels in this town—within pistol shot?"
His youthful face hardened as he snapped out his last word, like the crack of a whip.
"I don't know how far your pistol carries," said Mr. Keen. "Do you wish to swear out a warrant?"
"No, I do not. I merely wish their addresses. You have not used the police in this matter, have you, Mr. Keen?"
"No. Your cable was explicit," said the Tracer. "Had you permitted me to use the police it would have been much less expensive for you."
"I can't help that," said the young man. "Besides, in a matter of this sort, a man cannot decently consider expense."
"A matter of what sort?" asked the Tracer blandly.
"Ofthissort."
"Oh! Yet even now I do not understand. You must remember, Mr. Burke, that you have not told me anything concerning the reasons for your quest of these two men, Joram Smiles and Emanuel Gandon. Besides, this is the first time you have mentioned pistol range."
Burke, smoking steadily, looked at the Tracer through the blue fog of his cigar.
"No," he said, "I have not told you anything about them."
Mr. Keen waited a moment; then, smiling quietly to himself, he wrote down the present addresses of Joram Smiles and Emanuel Gandon, and, tearing off the leaf, handed it to the younger man, saying: "I omit the pistol range, Mr. Burke."
"I am very grateful to you," said Burke. "The efficiency of your system is too famous for me to venture to praise it. All I can say is 'Thank you'; all I can do in gratitude is to write my check—if you will be kind enough to suggest the figures."
"Are you sure that my services are ended?"
"Thank you, quite sure."
So the Tracer of Lost Persons named the figures, and his client produced a check book and filled in a check for the amount. This was presented and received with pleasant formality. Burke rose, prepared to take his leave, but the Tracer was apparently busy with the combination lock of a safe, and the young man lingered a moment to make his adieus.
As he stood waiting for the Tracer to turn around he studied the writing on the sheet of paper which he held toward the light: