“I do want to love somebody!” he found himself saying half aloud; “I want to marry; I—­” He turned to look after three pretty children with their maids—­“I want several like those—­several!—­seven—­ten—­I don’t care how many!  I want a house to worry me, just as Tommy described it; I want to see the same girl across the breakfast table—­or she can sip her cocoa in bed if she desires—­” A slow, modest blush stole over his features; it was one of the nicest things he ever did.  Glancing up, he beheld across the way a white sign, ornamented with strenuous crimson lettering: 

KEEN & CO. 
TRACERS OF LOST PERSONS

The moment he discovered it, he realized he had been covertly hunting for it; he also realized that he was going to climb the stairs.  He hadn’t quite decided what he meant to do after that; nor was his mind clear on the matter when he found himself opening a door of opaque glass on which was printed in red: 

KEEN & CO.

He was neither embarrassed nor nervous when he found himself in a big carpeted anteroom where a negro attendant bowed him to a seat and took his card; and he looked calmly around to see what was to be seen.

Several people occupied easy chairs in various parts of the room—­an old woman very neatly dressed, clutching in her withered hand a photograph which she studied and studied with tear-dimmed eyes; a young man wearing last year’s most fashionable styles in everything except his features:  and soap could have aided him there; two policemen, helmets resting on their knees; and, last of all, a rather thin child of twelve, staring open-mouthed at everybody, a bundle of soiled clothing under one arm.  Through an open door he saw a dozen young women garbed in black, with white cuffs and collars, all rattling away steadily at typewriters.  Every now and then, from some hidden office, a bell rang decisively, and one of the girls would rise from her machine and pass noiselessly out of sight to obey the summons.  From time to time, too, the darky servant with marvelous manners would usher somebody through the room where the typewriters were rattling, into the unseen office.  First the old woman went—­shakily, clutching her photograph; then the thin child with the bundle, staring at everything; then the two fat policemen, in portentous single file, helmets in their white-gloved hands, oiled hair glistening.

Gatewood’s turn was approaching; he waited without any definite emotion, watching newcomers enter to take the places of those who had been summoned.  He hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was to say; nor did it worry him.  A curious sense of impending good fortune left him pleasantly tranquil; he picked up, from the silver tray on the table at his elbow, one of the firm’s business cards, and scanned it with interest: 

     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.