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When the Tracer of Lost Persons entered Captain Harren's room at the Hotel Vice-Regent that afternoon he found the young man standing at a center table, pencil in hand, studying a sheet of paper which was covered with letters and figures.
Why, I've even seen it on the brilliant wings of tropical insects. It's got on my nerves. I dream about it." "And you buy books about it and try to work out its mystical meaning?" suggested the Tracer, smiling. But Harren's gray eyes were serious. He said: "She never comes to me without that symbol somewhere about her. . . . I told you she never spoke to me.
Harren's dry lips unclosed, but he uttered no sound. "She is beautiful, is she not?" repeated the Tracer, turning to look at the young man. "Can you not see she is?" he asked impatiently. "No," said the Tracer. Harren stared at him. "Captain Harren," continued the Tracer, "I can see nothing upon this bit of paper that resembles in the remotest degree a human face or figure." Harren turned white.
Keen: all sorts and conditions of people smartly gowned women, an anxious-browed business man or two, a fat German truck driver, his greasy cap on his knees, a surly policeman, and an old Irishwoman, wearing a shawl and an ancient straw bonnet. Harren's eyes reverted to the darky. "You will explain to Mr.
Keen were now made a week in advance, so when young Harren sent in his card, the gayly liveried negro servant came back presently, threading his way through the waiting throng with pomp and circumstance, and returned the card to Harren with the date of appointment rewritten in ink across the top. The day named was Wednesday. On Tuesday Harren's leave expired.
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