“Mistuh Keen will receive you, suh,” he whispered, leading the way into a large room where dozens of attractive young girls sat very busily engaged at typewriting machines.  Door after door they passed, all numbered on the ground-glass panes, then swung to the right, where the darky bowed him into a big, handsomely furnished room flooded with the morning sun.  A tall, gray man, faultlessly dressed in a gray frock suit and wearing white spats, turned from the breezy, open window to inspect him; the lean, well groomed, rather lank type of gentleman suggesting a retired colonel of cavalry; unmistakably well bred from the ends of his drooping gray mustache to the last button on his immaculate spats.

“Captain Harren?” he said pleasantly.

“Mr. Keen?”

They bowed.  Young Harren drew from his pocket a card.  It was the business card of Keen & Co., and, glancing up at Mr. Keen, he read it aloud, carefully: 

     KEEN & CO.

     TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

     Keen & Co. are prepared to locate the whereabouts of anybody on
     earth.  No charges will be made unless the person searched for is
     found.

     Blanks on Application.

     WESTREL KEEN, Manager.

Harren raised his clear, gray eyes.  “I assume this statement to be correct, Mr. Keen?”

“You may safely assume so,” said Mr. Keen, smiling.

“Does this statement include all that you are prepared to undertake?”

The Tracer of Lost Persons inspected him coolly.  “What more is there, Captain Harren?  I undertake to find lost people.  I even undertake to find the undiscovered ideals of young people who have failed to meet them.  What further field would you suggest?” Harren glanced at the card which he held in his gloved hand; then, very slowly, he re-read, “the whereabouts of anybody on earth,” accenting the last two words deliberately as he encountered Keen’s piercing gaze again.

“Well?” asked Mr. Keen laughingly, “is not that sufficient?  Our clients could scarcely expect us to invade heaven in our search for the vanished.”

“There are other regions,” said Harren.

“Exactly.  Sit down, sir.  There is a row of bookcases for your amusement.  Please help yourself while I clear decks for action.”

Harren stood fingering the card, his gray eyes lost in retrospection; then he sauntered over to the bookcases, scanning the titles.  The Searcher for Lost Persons studied him for a moment or two, turned, and began to pace the room.  After a moment or two he touched a bell.  A sweet-faced young girl entered; she was gowned in black and wore a white collar, and cuffs turned back over her hands.

“Take this memorandum,” he said.  The girl picked up a pencil and pad, and Mr. Keen, still pacing the room, dictated in a quiet voice as he walked to and fro: