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It's too late to expostulate with her, you see. Besides, it wouldn't have done any good when she was alive." The Tracer knitted his brows, musing, the points of his slim fingers joined. "She was very proud, very autocratic," said Carden. "I am the last of my race and my aunt was determined that the race should not die out with me. I don't want to marry and increase, but she's trying to make me.
Keen studied him calmly. "Yes, plenty of reason, plenty of reason, Mr. Gatewood. But do you suppose you are the only one? I know another who was perfectly sane two weeks ago." The young man waited impatiently; the Tracer paced the room, gray head bent, delicate, wrinkled hands clasped loosely behind his bent back. "You have horses at the Whip and Spur Club," he said abruptly.
"How on earth could I have obtained that photograph of her in the darkness?" he demanded. "N-rays," said the Tracer coolly. "It has been done in France." "Yes, from living people, but " "What the N-ray is in living organisms, we must call, for lack of a better term, the subaura in the phantom." They bent over the photograph together. Presently the Tracer said: "She is very, very beautiful?"
Thank you. And I shall sit here beside you and spread out this papyrus scroll for your inspection." Burke stared at the Tracer, then at the scroll. "What has that inscription to do with the matter in hand?" he demanded impatiently. "I leave you to judge," said the Tracer.
"He goes from the Lenox Club to the residence of Mr. W. Danforth Lee, East Eighty-third Street, to get a suit case," repeated the Tracer. "Is that correct?" "Yes." "What is in the suit case?" "Samples of that new marble he's quarrying in Georgia." "Is it an old suit case? Has it Mr. Kerns's initials on it?" "Hold the wire; I'll find out."
Immersed in moral reflections, inspired by affectionate obligations to violently inflict happiness upon Kerns, the minutes passed very agreeably until the amused voice of the Tracer of Lost Persons sounded again in the receiver. "Mr. Gatewood?" "Yes, I am here, Mr. Keen." "Do you really think it best for Mr. Kerns to fall in love?" "I do, certainly!" replied Gatewood with emphasis.
His gaze wandered about the room, from telephone desk to bookcase, from the table to the huge steel safe, door ajar, swung outward like the polished breech of a twelve-inch gun. Then his vacant eyes met the eyes of the Tracer of Lost Persons, almost helplessly.
A curious desire to see this Tracer of Lost Persons seized him with a persistence unaccountable. He slept poorly, haunted with visions. On Monday he went to see Mr. Keen. It could do no harm; it was too late to do either harm or good, for his leave expired the next day at noon.
Smiles or converting Mr. Gandon into nitrates." "If it is a matter where one man can help another," the Tracer added simply, "it would give me pleasure to place my resources at your command without recompense " "Mr. Keen!" said Burke, astonished. "Yes?" "You are very amiable; I had not wished had not expected anything except professional interest from you." "Why not? I like you, Mr. Burke."
Once she inscribed a message to him, cutting it with the diamond in her ring on the window pane " A slight sound escaped from Miss Inwood's lips. "I beg your pardon," said the Tracer, "did you say something?" The girl had risen, pale, astounded, incredulous. "Who are you?" she faltered. "What has this this story to do with me?"
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