“Then gaze upon me.  I’m it!”

“You’re not!  You don’t know what happiness is.”

“Don’t I?  Well, I don’t miss it, dear friend—­”

“But if you’ve never had it, and therefore don’t miss it, it’s time somebody found some real happiness for you.  Kerns, I simply can’t bear to see you missing so much happiness—­”

“Why grieve?”

“Yes, I will!  I do grieve—­in spite of your grinning skepticism and your bantering attitude.  See here, Tom; I’ve started about a thousand times to say that I knew a girl—­”

“Do you want to hear that splash again?”

Gatewood grew madder.  He said:  “I could easily lay your case before Mr. Keen and have you in love and married and happy whether you like it or not!”

“If I were not going to Boston, my son, I should enjoy your misguided efforts,” returned Kerns blandly.

“Your going to Boston makes no difference.  The Tracer of Lost Persons doesn’t care where you go or what you do.  If he starts in on your case, Tommy, you can’t escape.”

“You mean he can catch me now?  Here?  At my own club?  Or on the public highway?  Or on the classic Boston train?”

“He could.  Yes, I firmly believe he could land you before you ever saw the Boston State House.  I tell you he can work like lightning, Kerns.  I know it; I am so absolutely convinced of it that I—­I almost hesitate—­”

“Don’t feel delicate about it,” laughed Kerns; “you may call him on the telephone while I go uptown and get my suit case.  Perhaps I’ll come back a blushing bridegroom; who knows?”

“If you’ll wait here I’ll call him up now,” said Gatewood grimly.

“Oh, very well.  Only I left my suit case in Billy’s room, and it’s full of samples of Georgia marble, and I’ve got to get it to the train.”

“You’ve plenty of time.  If you’ll wait until I talk to Mr. Keen I’ll dine with you here.  Will you?”

“What?  Dine in this abandoned joint with an outcast like me?  Dear friend, are you dippy this lovely May evening?”

“I’ll do it if you’ll wait.  Will you?  And I’ll bet you now that I’ll have you in love and sprinting toward the altar before we meet again at this club.  Do you dare bet?”

“The terms of the wager, kind friend?” drawled Kerns, delighted; and he fished out a notebook kept for such transactions.

“Let me see,” reflected Gatewood; “you’ll need a silver service when you’re married. . . .  Well, say, forks and spoons and things against an imported trap gun—­twelve-gauge, you know.”

“Done.  Go and telephone to your friend, Mr. Keen.”  And Kerns pushed the electric button with a jeering laugh, and asked the servant for a dinner card.

CHAPTER XIII

Gatewood, in the telephone booth, waited impatiently for Mr. Keen; and after a few moments the Tracer of Lost Persons’ agreeable voice sounded in the receiver.