“Don’t be a short sport, Jack.”

“Well, I don’t care for the game you put me up against.  Do you know what has happened?”

“I really don’t, dear friend.  The Tracer of Lost Persons has not found her—­has he?”

“He says he has,” retorted Gatewood sullenly, pulling a crumpled telegram from his pocket and casting it upon the table.  “I don’t want to see her; I’m not interested.  I never saw but one girl in my life who interested me in the slightest; and she’s employed to help in this ridiculous search.”

Kerns, meanwhile, had smoothed out the telegram and was intently perusing it: 

     “John Gatewood, Lenox Club, Fifth Avenue:

     “Person probably discovered.  Call here as soon as possible.

     W. KEEN.”

“What do you make of that?” demanded Gatewood hoarsely.

“Make of it?  Why, it’s true enough, I fancy.  Go and see, and if it’s she, be hers!”

“I won’t!  I don’t want to see any ideal!  I don’t want to marry.  Why do you try to make me marry somebody?”

“Because it’s good for you, dear friend.  Otherwise you’ll go to the doggy-dogs.  You don’t realize how much worry you are to me.”

“Confound it!  Why don’t you marry?  Why didn’t I ask you that when you put me up to all this foolishness?  What right have you to—­”

“Tut, friend! I know there’s no woman alive fit to wed me and spend her life in stealing kisses from me. I have no ideal. You have an ideal.”

“I haven’t!”

“Oh, yes, dear friend, there’s a stub in your check book to prove it.  You simply bet $5,000 that your ideal existed.  You’ve won.  Go and be her joy and sunshine.”

“I’ll put an end to this whole business,” said Gatewood wrathfully, “and I’ll do it now!”

“Bet you that you’re engaged within the week!” said Kerns with a placid smile.

The other swung around savagely:  “What will you bet, Tommy?  You may have what odds you please.  I’ll make you sit up for this.”

“I’ll bet you,” answered Kerns, deliberately, “an entire silver dinner service against a saddle horse for the bride.”

“That’s a fool bet!” snapped Gatewood.  “What do you mean?”

“Oh, if you don’t care to—­”

“What do I want of a silver service?  But, all right; I’ll bet you anything.”

“She’ll want it,” replied Kerns significantly, booking the bet.  “I may as well canter out to Tiffany’s this morning, I fancy. . . .  Where are you going, Jack?”

“To see Keen and confess what an ass I’ve been!” returned Gatewood sullenly, striding across the breakfast room to take his hat and gloves from the rack.  And out he went, mad all over.

On his way up the avenue he attempted to formulate the humiliating confession which already he shrank from.  But it had to be done.  He simply could not stand the prospect of being notified month after month that a lady would be on view somewhere.  It was like going for a fitting; it was horrible.  Besides, what use was it?  Within a week or two an enormous and utterly inexplicable emptiness had yawned before him, revealing life as a hollow delusion.  He no longer cared.