Part 19 (1/2)

”You think that--that it's likely we are g-going to see--_her_!” he faltered.

”If I were you,” mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, joining the tips of his lean fingers meditatively--”If I were you I should wear a silk hat and a frock coat. It's--it's afternoon, anyhow,” he added deprecatingly, ”and we are liable to make a call.”

Captain Harren turned like a man in a dream and entered his bedroom. And when he emerged he was dressed and groomed with pathetic precision.

”Mr. Keen,” he said, ”I--I don't know why I am d-daring to hope for all s-sorts of things. Nothing you have said really warrants it. But somehow I'm venturing to cherish an absurd notion that I may s-see her.”

”Perhaps,” said the Tracer, smiling.

”Mr. Keen! You wouldn't say that if--if there was no chance, would you?

You wouldn't dash a fellow's hopes--”

”No, I wouldn't,” said Mr. Keen. ”I tell you frankly that I expect to find her.”

”To-day?”

”We'll see,” said Mr. Keen guardedly. ”Come, Captain, don't look that way! Courage, sir! We are about to execute a turning movement; but you look like a Russian general on his way to the south front.”

Harren managed to laugh; they went out, side by side, descended the elevator, and found a cab at the _porte-cochere_. Mr. Keen gave the directions and followed the Captain into the cab.

”Now,” he said, as they wheeled south, ”we are first going to visit the Museum of Inscriptions and have this cipher translation verified. Here is the cipher as I copied it. Hold it tightly, Captain; we've only a few blocks to drive.”

Indeed they were already nearly there. The hansom drew up in front of a plain granite building wedged in between some rather elaborate private dwelling-houses. Over the door were letters of dull bronze:

AMERICAN MUSEUM OF INSCRIPTIONS

and the two men descended and entered a wide marble hall lined with gla.s.s-covered cabinets containing plaster casts of various ancient inscriptions and a few bronze and marble originals. Several female frumps were nosing the exhibits.

An attendant in livery stood in the middle distance. The Tracer walked over to him. ”I have an appointment to consult Miss Inwood,” he whispered.

”This way, sir,” nodded the attendant, and the Tracer signaled the Captain to follow.

They climbed several marble stairways, crossed a rotunda, and entered a room--a sort of library. Beyond was a door which bore the inscription:

a.s.sISTANT CURATOR

”Now,” said the Tracer of Lost Persons in a low voice to Captain Harren, ”I am going to ask you to sit here for a few minutes while I interview the a.s.sistant curator. You don't mind, do you?”

”No, I don't mind,” said Harren wearily, ”only, when are we going to begin to search for--_her_?”

”Very soon--I may say extremely soon,” said Mr. Keen gravely. ”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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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.

There was a young girl seated at a desk by an open window; she looked up quietly as he entered, then rose leisurely.

”Miss Inwood?”

”Yes.”