Part 23 (1/2)
”Samples of that new marble he's quarrying in Georgia.”
”Is it an old suit case? Has it Mr. Kerns's initials on it?”
”Hold the wire; I'll find out.”
And Gatewood left the telephone and walked into the great lounging room, where Kerns sat twirling his stick and smiling to himself.
”All over, dear friend?” inquired Kerns, starting to rise. ”I've ordered a corking dinner.”
”Wait!” returned Gatewood ominously. ”What sort of a suit case is that one you're going after?”
”What sort? Oh, just an ordinary--”
”Is it old or new?”
”Brand new. Why?”
”Is your name on it?”
”No; why? Would that thicken the plot, dear friend? Or is the Tracer foiled, ha! ha!”
Gatewood turned on his heel, went back to the telephone, and, carefully shutting the door of the booth, took up the receiver.
”It's a new suit case, Mr. Keen,” he said; ”no initials on it--just an ordinary case.”
”Mr. Lee's residence is 38 East Eighty-third Street, between Madison and Fifth, I believe.”
”Yes,” replied Gatewood.
”And the family are out of town?”
”Yes.”
”Is there a caretaker there?”
”No; Mr. Kerns camped there. When he leaves to-night he will send the key to the Burglar Alarm Company.”
”Very well. Please hold the wire for a while.”
For ten full minutes Gatewood sat gleefully cuddling the receiver against his ear. His faith in Mr. Keen was naturally boundless; he believed that whatever the Tracer attempted could not result in failure.
He desired nothing in the world so ardently as to see Kerns safely married. His own happiness may have been the motive power which had set him in action in behalf of his friend--that and a certain indefinable desire to practice a species of heavenly revenge, of grateful retaliation upon the prime mover and _collaborateur_, if not the sole author, of his own wedded bliss. Kerns had made him happy.
”And I'm hanged if I don't pay him off and make him happy, too!”
muttered Gatewood. ”Does he think I'm going to sit still and see him go tearing and gyrating about town with no responsibility, no moral check to his evolutions, no wholesome home duties to limit his acrobatics, no wife to clip his wings? It's time he had somebody to report to; time he a.s.sumed moral burdens and spiritual responsibilities. A man is just as happy when he is certain where he is going to sleep. A man can find just as much enjoyment in life when he feels it his duty to account for his movements. I don't care whether Kerns is comparatively happy or not--there's nothing either sacred or holy in that kind of happiness, and I'm not going to endure the sort of life he likes any longer!”
Immersed in moral reflections, inspired by affectionate obligations to violently inflict happiness upon Kerns, the minutes pa.s.sed very agreeably until the amused voice of the Tracer of Lost Persons sounded again in the receiver.
”Mr. Gatewood?”