She made the slightest motion with her lips.

“No,” mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, “she never forgot him.  I am not sure, but I think she sometimes dreamed of him.  She dreamed of him awake, too.  Once she inscribed a message to him, cutting it with the diamond in her ring on the window pane—­”

A slight sound escaped from Miss Inwood’s lips.  “I beg your pardon,” said the Tracer, “did you say something?”

The girl had risen, pale, astounded, incredulous.

“Who are you?” she faltered.  “What has this—­this story to do with me?”

“Child,” said the Tracer of Lost Persons, “the Seal of Solomon is a splendid mystery.  All of heaven and earth are included within its symbol.  And more, more than you dream of, more than I dare fathom; and I am an old man, my child—­old, alone, with nobody to fear for, nothing to dread, not even the end of all—­because I am ready for that, too.  Yet I, having nothing on earth to dread, dare not fathom what that symbol may mean, nor what vast powers it may exert on life.  God knows.  It may be the very signet of Fate itself; the sign manual of Destiny.”

He drew the paper from his pocket, unrolled it, and spread it out under her frightened eyes.

“That!” she whispered, steadying herself blindly against the arm he offered.  She stood a moment so, then, shuddering, covered her eyes with both hands.  The Tracer of Lost Persons looked at her, turned and opened the door.

“Captain Harren!” he called quietly.  Harren, pacing the anteroom, turned and came forward.  As he entered the door he caught sight of the girl crouching by the window, her face hidden in her hands, and at the same moment she dropped her hands and looked straight at him.

“You!” she gasped.

The Tracer of Lost Persons stepped out, closing the door.  For a moment he stood there, tall, gaunt, gray, staring vacantly into space.

“She was beautiful—­when she looked at him,” he muttered.

For another minute he stood there, hesitating, glancing backward at the closed door.  Then he went away, stooping slightly, his top hat held close against the breast of his tightly buttoned frock coat.

CHAPTER XI

During his first year of wedded bliss, Gatewood cut the club.  When Kerns wanted to see him he had to call like other people or, like other people, accept young Mrs. Gatewood’s invitations.

“Why,” said Gatewood scornfully, “should I, thirty-four years of age and safely married, go to a club?  Why should I, at my age, idle with a lot of idlers and listen to stuffy stories from stuffier individuals?  Do you think that stale tobacco smoke, and the idiotically reiterated click of billiard balls, and the vacant stare of the fashionably brainless, and the meaningless exchange of banalities with the intellectually aimless have any attractions for me?”