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Updated: June 9, 2025
"I knew him; so I've ventured to trust his son even when I heard how aimlessly he was living his life. Mr. Gatewood! May I ask you something as an old friend of your father?" The young man nodded, subdued, perplexed, scarcely understanding.
"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"; looked at him absently, glanced at what she had written, flushed a little, rubbed out the "she is probably," wondering why a moment's mental wandering should have committed her to absurdity. "Married?" she asked with emphasis.
"Curious I can't think of the color of her eyes," he said; "is isn't it?" She coldly inspected her pad and made a correction; but all she did was to rub out a comma and put another in its place. Meanwhile, Gatewood, chin in his hand, sat buried in profound thought. "Were they blue?" he murmured to himself aloud, "or were they brown? Blue begins with a b and brown begins with a b.
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.
Do you think that stale tobacco smoke, and the idiotically reiterated click of billiard balls, and the vacant stare of the fashionably brainless, and the meaningless exchange of banalities with the intellectually aimless have any attractions for me?" Mrs. Gatewood raised her pretty eyes in silence; Kerns returned her amused gaze rather blankly. "Clubs!" sniffed Gatewood.
He pushed the electric knob as an afterthought, and when the gilt buttons of the club servant glimmered through the dusk, "Two more," he explained briskly. After a few moments' silence, broken by the tinkle of ice in thin glassware, Gatewood leaned forward, menacing his friend with an impressive forefinger: "Did you or didn't you once tell me that a decent citizen ought to marry?"
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?"
I suppose it's what the laundress does to my linen. What do I care?" "Don't be a short sport, Jack." "Well, I don't care for the game you put me up against. Do you know what has happened?" "I really don't, dear friend. The Tracer of Lost Persons has not found her has he?" "He says he has," retorted Gatewood sullenly, pulling a crumpled telegram from his pocket and casting it upon the table.
Gatewood put on his coat, took hat and gloves from the unabashed valet, and sauntered down to the sunny breakfast room, where he found Kerns inspecting a morning paper and leisurely consuming grapefruit with a cocktail on the side. "Hullo," observed Kerns briefly. "I'm not on the telephone," snapped Gatewood. "I beg your pardon; how are you, dear friend?"
"If a man doesn't want to marry, the army, the navy, the Senate, the white wings, and the great White Father at Washington can't make him." "I tell you I want to see you happy!" said Gatewood angrily. "Then gaze upon me. I'm it!" "You're not! You don't know what happiness is." "Don't I? Well, I don't miss it, dear friend "
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