“What news have you for me, Mr. Keen?” asked the younger man with that same directness which the Tracer had already been prepared for, and which only corroborated the frankness of eyes and voice.

“My news is brief,” he said.  “I have both your men under observation.”

“Already?” exclaimed Burke, plainly unprepared.  “Do you actually mean that I can see these men whenever I desire to do so?  Are these scoundrels in this town—­within pistol shot?”

His youthful face hardened as he snapped out his last word, like the crack of a whip.

“I don’t know how far your pistol carries,” said Mr. Keen.  “Do you wish to swear out a warrant?”

“No, I do not.  I merely wish their addresses.  You have not used the police in this matter, have you, Mr. Keen?”

“No.  Your cable was explicit,” said the Tracer.  “Had you permitted me to use the police it would have been much less expensive for you.”

“I can’t help that,” said the young man.  “Besides, in a matter of this sort, a man cannot decently consider expense.”

“A matter of what sort?” asked the Tracer blandly.

“Of this sort.”

“Oh!  Yet even now I do not understand.  You must remember, Mr. Burke, that you have not told me anything concerning the reasons for your quest of these two men, Joram Smiles and Emanuel Gandon.  Besides, this is the first time you have mentioned pistol range.”

Burke, smoking steadily, looked at the Tracer through the blue fog of his cigar.

“No,” he said, “I have not told you anything about them.”

Mr. Keen waited a moment; then, smiling quietly to himself, he wrote down the present addresses of Joram Smiles and Emanuel Gandon, and, tearing off the leaf, handed it to the younger man, saying:  “I omit the pistol range, Mr. Burke.”

“I am very grateful to you,” said Burke.  “The efficiency of your system is too famous for me to venture to praise it.  All I can say is ’Thank you’; all I can do in gratitude is to write my check—­if you will be kind enough to suggest the figures.”

“Are you sure that my services are ended?”

“Thank you, quite sure.”

So the Tracer of Lost Persons named the figures, and his client produced a check book and filled in a check for the amount.  This was presented and received with pleasant formality.  Burke rose, prepared to take his leave, but the Tracer was apparently busy with the combination lock of a safe, and the young man lingered a moment to make his adieus.

As he stood waiting for the Tracer to turn around he studied the writing on the sheet of paper which he held toward the light: 

     Joram Smiles, no profession, 613 West 24th Street.  Emanuel Gandon,
     no profession, same address.  Very dangerous men.

It occurred to him that these three lines of pencil-writing had cost him a thousand dollars—­and at the same instant he flushed with shame at the idea of measuring the money value of anything in such a quest as this.