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Updated: September 26, 2025
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.
"You can't see anything written on that pane as though cut by a diamond?" "Nothing distinct." "But you see her?" "Perfectly." "In minute detail?" "Yes." The Tracer thought a moment: "Does she wear a ring?" "Yes; can't you see?" "Draw it for me." "Oh," observed the Tracer, "she wears the Seal of Solomon on her ring." Harren looked up at him.
"I assume this statement to be correct, Mr. Keen?" "You may safely assume so," said Mr. Keen, smiling. "Does this statement include all that you are prepared to undertake?" The Tracer of Lost Persons inspected him coolly. "What more is there, Captain Harren? I undertake to find lost people. I even undertake to find the undiscovered ideals of young people who have failed to meet them.
He suddenly sprang up and walked to the window, leaning close and examining the glass. Harren followed and laid his hand lightly over the pane. "Do you see any marks on the glass?" demanded Keen. Harren shook his head. "Have you a magnifying glass?" asked the Tracer.
The two men eyed one another in silence for a moment, then Harren pointed grimly to the confusion of letters and figures covering dozens of scattered sheets lying on the table. "That's part of my madness," he said with a short laugh. "Can you make anything of such lunatic work?" The Tracer picked up a sheet of paper covered with letters of the alphabet and Roman and Arabic numerals.
Harren had drawn his chair beside him, and now sat leaning forward, bronzed cheek resting in his hand, staring fixedly at the picture. "When was this this photograph taken?" asked the Tracer quietly. "The day after I arrived in New York. I was here, alone, smoking my pipe and glancing over the evening paper just before dressing for dinner.
"By the way, I think I'll take that sheet of paper on which I copied the cipher. Thank you. I won't be long." The attendant had vanished. Captain Harren sat down by a window and gazed out into the late afternoon sunshine. The Tracer of Lost Persons, treading softly across the carpeted floor, approached the sanctuary, turned the handle, and walked in, carefully closing the door behind him.
Therefore I infer several things for example, that you are in love." "I? In love?" "Desperately, Captain." "Your inferences seem to satisfy you, at least," said Harren almost sullenly, "but they don't satisfy me clever as they appear to be." "Exactly. Then you are not in love?" "I don't know whether I am or not." "I do," said the Tracer of Lost Persons.
He studied it for a while, then glanced interrogatively at Harren. "It's nothing," said Harren. "I've been groping for three years but it's no use. That's lunatics' work." He wheeled squarely on his heels, looking straight at the Tracer. "Do you think I've had a touch of the sun?" "No," said Mr. Keen, drawing a chair to the table.
Don't you see that exquisite slim figure standing there by the curtain?" demanded Harren, laying his shaking finger on the photograph. "Why, man, it is as clear, as clean cut, as distinct as though the picture had been taken in sunlight! Do you mean to say that there is nothing there that I am crazy?" "No. Wait." "Wait!
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