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"I look as though I had been on a bat!" exclaimed Carden, surveying himself in a mirror. "Do you think any girl could find any attraction in such a countenance?" "She will," observed the Tracer meaningly. "Now, Mr. Carden, one last word: The moment you find yourself in love with her, and the first moment you have the chance to do so decently, make love to her.
Kerns is now exactly what I was a year ago an utterly useless member of the community a typical bachelor who lives at his clubs, shirking the duties of a decent citizen." "Exactly," said the Tracer. "Do you insist that I take this case? That I attempt to trace and find for Mr. Kerns a sort of happiness he himself has never found?" "I implore you to do so, Mr. Keen." "Exactly.
Keen?" "Certainly," replied the Tracer gravely. "Please continue, Captain Harren." "All right, then. Here's the beginning of it: Three years ago, here in New York, drifting along Fifth Avenue with the crowd, I looked up to encounter the most wonderful pair of eyes that I ever beheld that any living man ever beheld! The most wonderfully beautiful "
"But surely," said the Tracer mildly, "you have some natural curiosity to see the living copy of your charming but inanimate originals, haven't you, Mr. Carden?" "Yes oh, certainly. I'd like to see one of them alive say out of a window, or from a cab. I should not care to be too close to her." "But merely seeing her does not commit you," interposed Mr. Keen, smiling.
As he entered the door he caught sight of the girl crouching by the window, her face hidden in her hands, and at the same moment she dropped her hands and looked straight at him. "You!" she gasped. The Tracer of Lost Persons stepped out, closing the door. For a moment he stood there, tall, gaunt, gray, staring vacantly into space. "She was beautiful when she looked at him," he muttered.
I have a notion that numbers play a part in it you see where these crossed squares are bracketed those must be numbers requiring two figures " He fell silent again, and for another quarter of an hour he remained motionless, immersed in the problem before him, Harren frowning at the paper over his shoulder. "Come!" said the Tracer suddenly; "this won't do.
Try New York first Edith Inwood is the name. Look sharp, please; I am holding the wire." He held it for ten full minutes; then Miss Borrow's low voice called him over the wire. "Go ahead," said the Tracer quietly. "There is only one Edith Inwood in New York, Mr.
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.
Next time I looked, the five Boches, or six, whichever it was, had all been raveled out by the wind. Éclats d'obus." "You may have heard about Franklin's Boche. He got it during his first combat. He didn't know that there was a German in the sky, until he saw the tracer bullets. Then the machine passed him about thirty metres away. And he kept going down: may have had motor trouble.
"Exactly," said the Tracer severely. "Why is it necessary that you marry somebody before the day after to-morrow?" "Well, it's my twenty-fifth birthday " "Somebody has left you money on condition that you marry before your twenty-fifth birthday? Is that it, Mr. Carden? An uncle? An imbecile grandfather? A sentimental aunt?" "My Aunt Tabby Van Beekman." "Where is she?" "In Trinity churchyard.
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