“This is a list of particular and general questions for you to answer, Mr. Gatewood,” she said, handing him a long slip of printed matter.  “The replies to such questions as you are able or willing to answer you may dictate to me.”  The beauty of her modulated voice was scarcely a surprise—­no woman who moved and carried herself as did this tall young girl in black and white could reasonably be expected to speak with less distinction—­yet the charm of her voice, from the moment her lips unclosed, so engrossed him that the purport of her speech escaped him.

“Would you mind saying it once more?” he asked.

She did so; he attempted to concentrate his attention, and succeeded sufficiently to look as though some vestige of intellect remained in him.  He saw her pick up a pad and pencil; the contour and grace of two deliciously fashioned hands arrested his mental process once more.

“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily; “what were you saying, Miss Southerland?”

“Nothing, Mr. Gatewood.  I did not speak.”  And he realized, hazily, that she had not spoken—­that it was the subtle eloquence of her youth and loveliness that had appealed like a sudden voice—­a sound faintly exquisite echoing his own thought of her.

Troubled, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand; it was headed: 

                    SPECIAL DESCRIPTION BLANK
                         (Form K)

And he read it as carefully as he was able to—­the curious little clamor of his pulses, the dazed sense of elation, almost of expectation, distracting his attention all the time.

“I wish you would read it to me,” he said; “that would give me time to think up answers.”

“If you wish,” she assented pleasantly, swinging around toward him in her desk chair.  Then she crossed one knee over the other to support the pad, and, bending above it, lifted her brown eyes.  She could have done nothing in the world more distracting at that moment.

“What is the sex of the person you desire to find, Mr. Gatewood?”

“Her sex?  I—­well, I fancy it is feminine.”

She wrote after “Sex” the words “She is probably feminine”; looked at him absently, glanced at what she had written, flushed a little, rubbed out the “she is probably,” wondering why a moment’s mental wandering should have committed her to absurdity.

“Married?” she asked with emphasis.

“No,” he replied, startled; then, vexed, “I beg your pardon—­you mean to ask if she is married!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you, Mr. Gatewood; it’s the next question, you see”—­she held out the blank toward him.  “Is the person you are looking for married?”

“Oh, no; she isn’t married, either—­at least—­trust—­not—­because if she is I don’t want to find her!” he ended, entangled in an explanation which threatened to involve him deeper than he desired.  And, looking up, he saw the beautiful brown eyes regarding him steadily.  They reverted to the paper at once, and the white fingers sent the pencil flying.