“It’s about Mr. Kerns,” began Gatewood; “I want to see him happy, and the idiot won’t be.  Now, Mr. Keen, you know what happiness you and he brought to me!  You know what sort of an idle, selfish, aimless, meaningless life you saved me from?  I want you to do the same for Mr. Kerns.  I want to ask you to take up his case at once.  Besides, I’ve a bet on it.  Could you attend to it at once?”

“To-night?” asked the Tracer, laughing.

“Why—­ah—­well, of course, that would be impossible.  I suppose—­”

“My profession is to overcome the impossible, Mr. Gatewood.  Where is Mr. Kerns?”

“Here, in this club, defying me and drinking cocktails.  He won’t get married, and I want you to make him do it.”

“Where is he spending the evening?” asked the Tracer, laughing again.

“Why, he’s been stopping at the Danforth Lees’ in Eighty-third Street until the workmen at the club here finish putting new paper on his walls.  The Lees are out of town.  He left his suit case at their house and he’s going up to get it and catch the 12.10 train for Boston.”

“He goes from the Lenox Club to the residence of Mr. W. Danforth Lee, East Eighty-third Street, to get a suit case,” repeated the Tracer.  “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What is in the suit case?”

“Samples of that new marble he’s quarrying in Georgia.”

“Is it an old suit case?  Has it Mr. Kerns’s initials on it?”

“Hold the wire; I’ll find out.”

And Gatewood left the telephone and walked into the great lounging room, where Kerns sat twirling his stick and smiling to himself.

“All over, dear friend?” inquired Kerns, starting to rise.  “I’ve ordered a corking dinner.”

“Wait!” returned Gatewood ominously.  “What sort of a suit case is that one you’re going after?”

“What sort?  Oh, just an ordinary—­”

“Is it old or new?”

“Brand new.  Why?”

“Is your name on it?”

“No; why?  Would that thicken the plot, dear friend?  Or is the Tracer foiled, ha! ha!”

Gatewood turned on his heel, went back to the telephone, and, carefully shutting the door of the booth, took up the receiver.

“It’s a new suit case, Mr. Keen,” he said; “no initials on it—­just an ordinary case.”

“Mr. Lee’s residence is 38 East Eighty-third Street, between Madison and Fifth, I believe.”

“Yes,” replied Gatewood.

“And the family are out of town?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a caretaker there?”

“No; Mr. Kerns camped there.  When he leaves to-night he will send the key to the Burglar Alarm Company.”

“Very well.  Please hold the wire for a while.”

For ten full minutes Gatewood sat gleefully cuddling the receiver against his ear.  His faith in Mr. Keen was naturally boundless; he believed that whatever the Tracer attempted could not result in failure.  He desired nothing in the world so ardently as to see Kerns safely married.  His own happiness may have been the motive power which had set him in action in behalf of his friend—­that and a certain indefinable desire to practice a species of heavenly revenge, of grateful retaliation upon the prime mover and collaborateur, if not the sole author, of his own wedded bliss.  Kerns had made him happy.