“Certainly.  Can you not see her?”

“No,” murmured the Tracer, “but I see the window which she really stood by when her phantom came here seeking you.  And that is sufficient.  Come, Captain Harren, we are going out together.”

The Captain looked at him earnestly; something in Mr. Keen’s eyes seemed to fascinate him.

“You think that—­that it’s likely we are g-going to see—­her!” he faltered.

“If I were you,” mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, joining the tips of his lean fingers meditatively—­“If I were you I should wear a silk hat and a frock coat.  It’s—­it’s afternoon, anyhow,” he added deprecatingly, “and we are liable to make a call.”

Captain Harren turned like a man in a dream and entered his bedroom.  And when he emerged he was dressed and groomed with pathetic precision.

“Mr. Keen,” he said, “I—­I don’t know why I am d-daring to hope for all s-sorts of things.  Nothing you have said really warrants it.  But somehow I’m venturing to cherish an absurd notion that I may s-see her.”

“Perhaps,” said the Tracer, smiling.

“Mr. Keen!  You wouldn’t say that if—­if there was no chance, would you?  You wouldn’t dash a fellow’s hopes—­”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Keen.  “I tell you frankly that I expect to find her.”

“To-day?”

“We’ll see,” said Mr. Keen guardedly.  “Come, Captain, don’t look that way!  Courage, sir!  We are about to execute a turning movement; but you look like a Russian general on his way to the south front.”

Harren managed to laugh; they went out, side by side, descended the elevator, and found a cab at the porte-cochere.  Mr. Keen gave the directions and followed the Captain into the cab.

“Now,” he said, as they wheeled south, “we are first going to visit the Museum of Inscriptions and have this cipher translation verified.  Here is the cipher as I copied it.  Hold it tightly, Captain; we’ve only a few blocks to drive.”

Indeed they were already nearly there.  The hansom drew up in front of a plain granite building wedged in between some rather elaborate private dwelling-houses.  Over the door were letters of dull bronze: 

AMERICAN MUSEUM OF INSCRIPTIONS

and the two men descended and entered a wide marble hall lined with glass-covered cabinets containing plaster casts of various ancient inscriptions and a few bronze and marble originals.  Several female frumps were nosing the exhibits.

An attendant in livery stood in the middle distance.  The Tracer walked over to him.  “I have an appointment to consult Miss Inwood,” he whispered.

“This way, sir,” nodded the attendant, and the Tracer signaled the Captain to follow.

They climbed several marble stairways, crossed a rotunda, and entered a room—­a sort of library.  Beyond was a door which bore the inscription: 

ASSISTANT CURATOR