The business of Keen & Co., Tracers of Lost Persons, had grown to enormous proportions; appointments for a personal interview with Mr. Keen were now made a week in advance, so when young Harren sent in his card, the gayly liveried negro servant came back presently, threading his way through the waiting throng with pomp and circumstance, and returned the card to Harren with the date of appointment rewritten in ink across the top.  The day named was Wednesday.  On Tuesday Harren’s leave expired.

“That won’t do,” said the young man brusquely; “I must see Mr. Keen to-day.  I wrote last week for an appointment.”

The liveried darky was polite but obdurate.

“Dis here am de ’pintment, suh,” he explained persuasively.

“But I want to see Mr. Keen at once,” insisted Harren.

“Hit ain’t no use, suh,” said the darky respectfully; “dey’s mi’ions an’ mi’ions ob gemmen jess a-settin’ roun’ an’ waitin’ foh Mistuh Keen.  In dis here perfeshion, suh, de fustest gemman dat has a ’pintment is de fustest gemman dat kin see Mistuh Keen.  You is a military gemman yohse’f, Cap’m Harren, an’ you is aware dat precedence am de rigger.”

The bronzed young man smiled, glanced at the date of appointment written on his card, which also bore his own name followed by the letters U.S.A., then his amused gray eyes darkened and he glanced leisurely around the room, where a dozen or more assorted people sat waiting their turns to interview Mr. Keen:  all sorts and conditions of people—­smartly gowned women, an anxious-browed business man or two, a fat German truck driver, his greasy cap on his knees, a surly policeman, and an old Irishwoman, wearing a shawl and an ancient straw bonnet.  Harren’s eyes reverted to the darky.

“You will explain to Mr. Keen,” he said, “that I am an army officer on leave, and that I am obliged to start for Manila to-morrow.  This is my excuse for asking an immediate interview; and if it’s not a good enough excuse I must cancel this appointment, that is all.”

The darky stood, irresolute, inclined to argue, but something in the steel-gray eyes of the man set him in involuntary motion, and he went away once more with the young man’s message.  Harren turned and walked back to his seat.  The old woman with the faded shawl was explaining volubly to a handsomely gowned woman beside her that she was looking for her boy, Danny; that her name was Mrs. Regan, and that she washed for the aristocracy of Hunter’s Point at a liberal price per dozen, using no deleterious substances in the suds as Heaven was her witness.

The German truck driver, moved by this confidence, was stirred to begin an endless account of his domestic misfortunes, and old Mrs. Regan, becoming impatient, had already begun to interrupt with an account of Regan’s recent hoisting on the wings of a premature petard, when the dark servant reappeared.