The Tracer of Lost Persons

  Produced by Steven desJardins and Distributed Proofreaders.

  "'Then in charity say that word!'"]

  THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS

  BY R. W. CHAMBERS

  TO MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM A. HALL

  1906

  _For the harmony of the world, like that of a harp, is made up of discords._

  --HERACLITUS.

  THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS

  CHAPTER I

  He was thirty-three, agreeable to look at, equipped with as much cultureand intelligence as is tolerated east of Fifth Avenue and west ofMadison. He had a couple of elaborate rooms at the Lenox Club, a largerincome than seemed to be good for him, and no profession. It followsthat he was a pessimist before breakfast. Besides, it's a bad thing fora man at thirty-three to come to the conclusion that he has seen all themost attractive girls in the world and that they have been vastlyoverrated. So, when a club servant with gilt buttons on his coat tailsknocked at the door, the invitation to enter was not very cordial. He ofthe buttons knocked again to take the edge off before he entered; thenopened the door and unburdened himself as follows:

  "Mr. Gatewood, sir, Mr. Kerns's compliments, and wishes to know if 'emay 'ave 'is coffee served at your tyble, sir."

  Gatewood, before the mirror, gave a vicious twist to his tie, inserted apearl scarf pin, and regarded the effect with gloomy approval.

  "Say to Mr. Kerns that I am--flattered," he replied morosely; "and tellHenry I want him."

  "'Enry, sir? Yes, sir."

  The servant left; one of the sleek club valets came in, softly sidling.

  "Henry!"

  "Sir?"

  "I'll wear a white waistcoat, if you don't object."

  The valet laid out half a dozen.

  "Which one do you usually wear when I'm away, Henry? Which is _your_favorite?"

  "Sir?"

  "Pick it out and don't look injured, and _don't_ roll up your eyes. Imerely desire to borrow it for one day."

  "Very good, sir."

  "And, Henry, hereafter always help yourself to my _best_ cigars. Those Ismoke may injure you. I've attempted to conceal the keys, but you will,of course, eventually discover them under that loose tile on thehearth."

  "Yes, sir; thanky', sir," returned the valet gravely.

  "And--Henry!"

  "Sir?" with martyred dignity.

  "When you are tired of searching for my olivine and opal pin, just findit, for a change. I'd like to wear that pin for a day or two if it wouldnot inconvenience you."

  "Very good, sir; I will 'unt it hup, sir."

  Gatewood put on his coat, took hat and gloves from the unabashed valet,and sauntered down to the sunny breakfast room, where he found Kernsinspecting a morning paper and leisurely consuming grapefruit with acocktail on the side.

  "Hullo," observed Kerns briefly.

  "I'm not on the telephone," snapped Gatewood.

  "I beg your pardon; how are you, dear friend?"

  "_I_ don't know how I am," retorted Gatewood irritably; "how the devilshould a man know how he is?"

  "Everything going to the bowwows, _as_ usual, dear friend?"

  "_As_ usual. Oh, read your paper, Tommy! You know well enough I'm notone of those tail-wagging imbeciles who wakes up in the morning singinglike a half-witted lark. Why should I, with this taste in my mouth, andthe laundress using vitriol, and Henry sneering at my cigars?" He yawnedand cast his eyes toward the ceiling. "Besides, there's too much giltall over this club! There's too much everywhere. Half the world isstucco, the rest rococo. Where's that Martini I bid for?"

  Kerns, undisturbed, applied himself to cocoa and toasted muffins.Grapefruit and an amber-tinted accessory were brought for the other andsampled without mirth. However, a little later Gatewood said: "Well, areyou going to read your paper all day?"

  "What you need," said Kerns, laying the paper aside, "is a job--any oldkind would do, dear friend."

  "I don't want to make any more money."

  "I don't want you to. I mean a job where you'd lose a lot and be scaredinto thanking Heaven for carfare. _You're_ a nice object for thebreakfast table!"

  "Bridge. I will be amiable enough by noon time."

  "Yes, you're endurable by noon time, as a rule. When you're forty youmay be tolerated after five o'clock; when you're fifty your wife andchildren might even venture to emerge from the cellar after dinner--"

  "Wife!"

  "I said wife," replied Kerns, as he calmly watched his man.

  He had managed it well, so far, and he was wise enough not to overdo it.An interval of silence was what the situation required.

  "I wish I _had_ a wife," muttered Gatewood after a long pause.

  "Oh, haven't you said that every day for five years? Wife! Look at thewilling assortment of dreams playing Sally Waters around town. Isn'tthis borough a bower of beauty--a flowery thicket where the prettiestkind in all the world grow under glass or outdoors? And what do you do?You used to pretend to prowl about inspecting the yearly crop of posies,growling, cynical, dissatisfied; but you've even given that up. Now youonly point your nose skyward and squall for a mate, and yowl mournfullythat you never have seen your ideal. _I_ know _you_."

  "I never have seen my ideal," retorted Gatewood sulkily, "but I know sheexists--somewhere between heaven and Hoboken."

  "You're sure, are you?"

  "Oh, _I'm_ sure. And, rich or poor, good or bad, she was fashioned forme alone. That's a theory of mine; _you_ needn't accept it; in fact,it's none of your business, Tommy."

  "All the same," insisted Kerns, "did you ever consider that if yourideal does exist somewhere, it is morally up to you to find her?"

  "Haven't I inspected every debutante for ten years? You don't expect meto advertise for an ideal, do you--object, matrimony?"

  Kerns regarded him intently. "Now, I'm going to make a vivid suggestion,Jack. In fact, that's why I subjected myself to the ordeal ofbreakfasting with you. It's none of my business, as you so kindly putit, but--_shall_ I suggest something?"

  "Go ahead," replied Gatewood, tranquilly lighting a cigarette. "I knowwhat you'll say."

  "No, you don't. Firstly, you are having such a good time in this worldthat you don't really enjoy yourself--isn't that so?"

  "I--well I--well, let it go at that."

  "Secondly, with all your crimes and felonies, you have one decent traitleft: you really would like to fall in love. And I suspect you'd evenmarry."

  "There are grounds," said Gatewood guardedly, "for your suspicions. _Etapres?_"

  "Good. Then there's a way! I know--"

  "Oh, don't tell me you 'know a girl,' or anything like that!" beganGatewood sullenly. "I've heard that before, and I won't meet her."

  "I don't want you to; I don't know anybody. All I desire to say is this:I do know a way. The other day I noticed a sign on Fifth Avenue:

  KEEN & CO. TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

  It was a most extraordinary sign; and having a little unemployedimagination I began to speculate on how Keen & Co. might operate, and Iwondered a little, too, that, the conditions of life in this city couldenable a firm to make a living by devoting itself exclusively to thebusiness of hunting up missing people."

  Kerns paused, partly to light a cigarette, partly for diplomaticreasons.

  "What has all this to do with me?" inquired Gatewood curiously; anddiplomacy scored one.

  "Why not try Keen & Co.?"

  "Try them? Why? I haven't lost anybody, have I?"

  "You haven't, precisely _lost anybody_, but the fact remains that youcan't _find somebody_," returned Kerns coolly. "Why not employ Keen &Co. to look for her?"

  "Look for whom, in Heaven's name?"
>
  "Your ideal."

  "Look for--for my ideal! Kerns, you're crazy. How the mischief cananybody hunt for somebody who doesn't exist?"

  "You _say_ that she _does_ exist."

  "But I can't prove it, man."

  "You don't have to; it's up to Keen & Co. to prove it. That's why youemploy them."

  "What wild nonsense you talk! Keen & Co. might, perhaps, be able totrace the concrete, but how are they going to trace and find theabstract?"

  "She isn't abstract; she is a lovely, healthy, and youthful concreteobject--if, as you say, she _does_ exist."

  "How can I _prove_ she exists?"

  "You don't have to; they do that."

  "Look here," said Gatewood almost angrily, "do you suppose that if Iwere ass enough to go to these people and tell them that I wanted tofind my ideal--"

  "_Don't_ tell them _that_!"

  "But how--"

  "There is no necessity for going into such trivial details. All youneed say is: 'I am very anxious to find a young lady'--and then describeher as minutely as you please. Then, when they locate a girl of thatdescription they'll notify you; you will go, judge for yourself whethershe is the one woman on earth--and, if disappointed, you need only shakeyour head and murmur: 'Not _the_ same!' And it's for them to findanother."

  "I won't do it!" said Gatewood hotly.

  "Why not? At least, it would be amusing. You haven't many mentalresources, and it might occupy you for a week or two."

  Gatewood glared.

  "You have a pleasant way of putting things this morning, haven't you?"

  "I don't want to be pleasant: I want to jar you. Don't I care enoughabout you to breakfast with you? Then I've a right to be pleasantlyunpleasant. I can't bear to watch your mental and spiritualdissolution--a man like you, with all your latent ability and capacityfor being nobody in particular--which is the sort of man this nationneeds. Do you want to turn into a club-window gazer like Van Bronk? Doyou want to become another Courtlandt Allerton and go rocking down theavenue--a grimacing, tailor-made sepulcher?--the pompous obsequies of adead intellect?--a funeral on two wavering legs, carrying the corpse ofall that should be deathless in a man? Why, Jack, I'd rather see you inbankruptcy--I'd rather see you trying to lead a double life in a singleflat on seven dollars and a half a week--I'd almost rather see you everyday at breakfast than have it come to that!

  "Wake up and get jocund with life! Why, you could have all good citizensstung to death if you chose. It isn't that I want you to make money; butI want you to worry over somebody besides yourself--not in WallStreet--a pool and its money are soon parted. But in your own home,where a beautiful wife and seven angel children have you dippy and closeto the ropes; where the housekeeper gets a rake off, and the cook isred-headed and comes from Sligo, and the butler's cousin will bearwatching, and the chauffeur is a Frenchman, and the coachman's uncle isa Harlem vet, and every scullion in the establishment lies, drinks,steals, and supports twenty satiated relatives at your expense. Thatwould mean the making of you; for, after all, Jack, you are nogenius--you're a plain, non-partisan, uninspired, clean-built, wholesomecitizen, thank God!--the sort whose unimaginative mission is to pitch inwith eighty-odd millions of us and, like the busy coral creatures,multiply with all your might, and make this little old Republic thegreatest, biggest, finest article that an overworked world has ever yetput up! . . . Now you can call for help if you choose."

  Gatewood's breath returned slowly. In an intimacy of many years he hadnever suspected that sort of thing from Kerns. That is why, no doubt,the opinions expressed by Kerns stirred him to an astonishment tooinnocent to harbor anger or chagrin.

  And when Kerns stood up with an unembarrassed laugh, saying, "I'm goingto the office; see you this evening?" Gatewood replied rather vacantly:"Oh, yes; I'm dining here. Good-by, Tommy."

  Kerns glanced at his watch, lingering. "Was there anything you wished toask me, Jack?" he inquired guilelessly.

  "Ask you? No, I don't think so."

  "Oh; I had an idea you might care to know where Keen & Co. were to befound."

  "_That_," said Gatewood firmly, "is foolish."

  "I'll write the address for you, anyway," rejoined Kerns, scribbling itand handing the card to his friend.

  Then he went down the stairs, several at a time, eased in conscience,satisfied that he had done his duty by a friend he cared enough for tobreakfast with.

  "Of course," he ruminated as he crawled into a hansom and lay backburied in meditation--"of course there may be nothing in this Keen & Co.business. But it will stir him up and set him thinking; and the longerKeen & Co. take to hunt up an imaginary lady that doesn't exist, themore anxious and impatient poor old Jack Gatewood will become, untilhe'll catch the fever and go cantering about with that one fixed idea inhis head. And," added Kerns softly, "no New Yorker in his right mind cango galloping through these five boroughs very long before he's roped,tied, and marked by the 'only girl in the world'--the _only_ girl--ifyou don't care to turn around and look at another million girlsprecisely like her. O Lord!--precisely like her!"

  Here was a nice exhorter to incite others to matrimony.