“All I say he is?  I haven’t said anything about him!”

Mr. Keen nodded. “Exactly.  Let us drop him for a moment. . . .  Are you perfectly well, Miss Southerland?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m glad of it.  You are a trifle pale; you seem to be a little languid. . . .  When do you take your vacation?”

“You suggested May, I believe,” she said wistfully.

The Tracer leaned back in his chair, joining the tips of his fingers reflectively.

“Miss Southerland,” he said, “you have been with us a year.  I thought it might interest you to know that I am exceedingly pleased with you.”

She colored charmingly.

“But,” he added, “I’m terribly afraid we’re going to lose you.”

“Why?” she asked, startled.

“However,” he continued, ignoring her half-frightened question with a smile, “I am going to promote you—­for faithful and efficient service.”

“O-h!”

“With an agreeable increase of salary, and new duties which will take you into the open air. . . .  You ride?”

“I—­I used to before——­”

“Exactly; before you were obliged to earn your living.  Please have yourself measured for habit and boots this afternoon.  I shall arrange for horse, saddle, and groom.  You will spend most of your time riding in the Park—­for the present.”

“But—­Mr. Keen—­am I to be one of your agents—­a sort of detective?”

Keen regarded her absently, then crossed one leg over the other.

“Read me your notes,” he said with a smile.

She read them, folded them, and he took them from her, thoughtfully regarding her.

“Did you know that your mother and I were children together?” he asked.

“No!” She stared.  “Is that why you sent for me that day at the school of stenography?”

“That is why . . .  When I learned that my playmate—­your mother—­was dead, is it not reasonable to suppose that I should wish her daughter to have a chance?”

Miss Southerland looked at him steadily.

“She was like you—­when she married . . .  I never married . . .  Do you wonder that I sent for you, child?”

Nothing but the clock ticking there in the sunny room, and an old man staring into two dimmed brown eyes, and the little breezes at the open window whispering of summers past.

“This young man, Gatewood,” said the Tracer, clearing his voice of its hoarseness—­“this young man ought to be all right, if I did not misjudge his father—­years ago, child, years ago.  And he is all right—­” He half turned toward a big letter-file; “his record is clean, so far.  The trouble with him is idleness.  He ought to marry.”

“Isn’t he trying to?” she asked.

“It looks like it.  Miss Southerland, we must find this woman!”

“Yes, but I don’t see how you are going to—­on such slight information—­”