“J.T.  BURKE.”

To which Kerns replied promptly: 

     “Wire Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, N.Y.”

And a day or two later, being on his honeymoon, he forgot all about his old friend Jack Burke.

On the fifteenth day of March, 1906, Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, received the following cablegram from Alexandria, Egypt: 

“Keen, Tracer, New York:—­Locate Joram Smiles, forty, stout, lame, red hair, ragged red mustache, cast in left eye, pallid skin; carries one crutch; supposed to have arrived in America per S. S. Scythian Queen, with man known as Emanuel Gandon, swarthy, short, fat, light bluish eyes, Eurasian type.

“I will call on you at your office as soon as my steamer, Empress of Babylon, arrives.  If you discover my men, keep them under surveillance, but on no account call in police.  Spare no expense.  Dundas, Gray & Co. are my bankers and reference.

     “JOHN TEMPLETON BURKE.”

On Monday, April 2d, a few minutes after eight o’clock in the morning, the card of Mr. John Templeton Burke was brought to Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, and a moment later a well-built, wiry, sun-scorched young man was ushered into Mr. Keen’s private office by a stenographer prepared to take minutes of the interview.

The first thing that the Tracer of Lost Persons noted in his visitor was his mouth; the next his eyes.  Both were unmistakably good—­the eyes which his Creator had given him looked people squarely in the face at every word; the mouth, which a man’s own character fashions agreeably or mars, was pleasant, but firm when the trace of the smile lurking in the corners died out.

There were dozens of other external characteristics which Mr. Keen always looked for in his clients; and now the rapid exchange of preliminary glances appeared to satisfy both men, for they advanced toward each other and exchanged a formal hand clasp.

“Have you any news for me?” asked Burke.

“I have,” said the Tracer.  “There are cigars on the table beside you—­matches in that silver case.  No, I never smoke; but I like the aroma—­and I like to watch men smoke.  Do you know, Mr. Burke, that no two men smoke in the same fashion?  There is as much character in the manner of holding a cigar as there is difference in the technic of artists.”

Burke nodded, amused, but, catching sight of the busy stenographer, his bronzed features became serious, and he looked at Mr. Keen inquiringly.

“It is my custom,” said the Tracer.  “Do you object to my stenographer?”

Burke looked at the slim young girl in her black gown and white collar and cuffs.  Then, very simply, he asked her pardon for objecting to her presence, but said that he could not discuss his case if she remained.  So she rose, with a humorous glance at Mr. Keen; and the two men stood up until she had vanished, then reseated themselves vis-a-vis.  Mr. Keen calmly dropped his elbow on the concealed button which prepared a hidden phonograph for the reception of every word that passed between them.