“It’s very generous of me to get him married,” he said frequently to himself, rather sadly.  “I did it pretty well, too.  It only shows that women have no particular monopoly in the realms of diplomacy and finesse; in fact, if a man really chooses to put his mind to such matters, he can make it no trumps and win out behind a bum ace and a guarded knave.”

He was pleased with himself.  He followed Gatewood about explaining how good he had been to him.  An enthusiasm for marrying off his friends began to germinate within him; he tried it on Darrell, on Barnes, on Yates, but was turned down and severely stung.

Then one day Harren of the Philippine Scouts turned up at the club, and they held a determined reunion until daylight, and they told each other all about it all and what upper-cuts life had handed out to them since the troopship sailed.

And after the rosy glow had deepened to a more gorgeous hue in the room, and the electric lights had turned into silver pinwheels; and after they had told each other the story of their lives, and the last siphon fizzed impotently when urged beyond its capacity, Kerns arose and extended his hand, and Harren took it.  And they executed a song resembling “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Ole man,” said Kerns reproachfully, “there’s one thing you have been deuced careful not to mention, and that is about what happened to you three years ago—­”

“Steady!” said Harren; “there is nothing to tell, Tommy.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.  I never saw her again.  I never shall.”

Kerns looked long and unsteadily upon his friend; then very gravely fumbled in his pocket and drew forth the business card of Westrel Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons.

“That,” he said, “will be about all.”  And he bestowed the card upon Harren with magnificent condescension.

And about five o’clock the following afternoon Harren found the card among various effects of his, scattered over his dresser.

It took him several days to make up his mind to pay any attention to the card or the suggestion it contained.  He scarcely considered it seriously even when, passing along Fifth Avenue one sunny afternoon, he chanced to glance up and see the sign

KEEN & CO. 
TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

staring him in the face.

He continued his stroll, but that evening, upon mere impulse, he sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Keen.

The next morning’s mail brought a reply and an appointment for an interview on Wednesday week.  Harren tossed the letter aside, satisfied to let the matter go, because his leave expired on Tuesday, and the appointment was impossible.

On Sunday, however, the melancholy of the deserted club affected his spirits.  A curious desire to see this Tracer of Lost Persons seized him with a persistence unaccountable.  He slept poorly, haunted with visions.

On Monday he went to see Mr. Keen.  It could do no harm; it was too late to do either harm or good, for his leave expired the next day at noon.