“I prefer to regulate any possible indebtedness in advance,” said Gatewood.

“As you wish,” replied the older man, smiling.  “In that case, suppose you draw your check” (he handed Gatewood a fountain pen as the young man fished a check-book from his pocket)—­“your check for—­well, say for $5,000, to the order of Keen & Co.”

Gatewood met his eye without wincing; he was in for it now; and he was always perfectly game.  He had brought it upon himself; it was his own proposition.  Not that he would have for a moment considered the sum as high—­or any sum exorbitant—­if there had been a chance of success; one cannot compare and weigh such matters.  But how could there be any chance for success?

As he slowly smoothed out the check and stub, pen poised, Keen was saying:  “Of course, we should succeed sooner or later—­if we took up your case.  We might succeed to-morrow—­to-day.  That would mean a large profit for us.  But we might not succeed to-day, or next month, or even next year.  That would leave us little or no profit; and, as it is our custom to go on until we do succeed, no matter how long it may require, you see, Mr. Gatewood, I should be taking all sorts of chances.  It might even cost us double your retainer before we found her—­”

“Her?  How did—­why do you say ’her’?”

“Am I wrong?” asked Keen, smiling.

“No—­you are right.”

The Tracer of Lost Persons sank into abstraction again.  Gatewood waited, hoping that his case might be declined, yet ready to face any music started at his own request.

“She is young,” mused Keen aloud, “very beautiful and accomplished. Is she wealthy?” He looked up mildly.

Gatewood said:  “I don’t know—­the truth is I don’t care—­” And stopped.

“O-ho!” mused Keen slowly.  “I—­think—­I understand.  Am I wrong, Mr. Gatewood, in surmising that this young lady whom you seek is, in your eyes, very—­I may say ideally gifted?”

“She is my ideal,” replied the young man, coloring.

“Exactly.  And—­her general allure?”

“Charming!”

“Exactly; but to be a trifle more precise—­if you could give me a sketch, an idea, a mere outline delicately tinted, now. Is she more blond than brunette?”

“Yes—­but her eyes are brown.  I—­I insist on that.”

“Why should you not? You know her; I don’t,” said Keen, laughing.  “I merely wished to form a mental picture. . . .  You say her hair is—­is—­”

“It’s full of sunny color; that’s all I can say.”

“Exactly—­I see.  A rare and lovely combination with brown eyes and creamy skin, Mr. Gatewood.  I fancy she might be, perhaps, an inch or two under your height?”

“Just about that.  Her hands should be—­are beautiful—­”

“Exactly.  The ensemble is most vividly portrayed, Mr. Gatewood; and—­you have intimated that her lack of fortune—­er—­we might almost say her pecuniary distress—­is more than compensated for by her accomplishments, character, and very unusual beauty. . . . Did I so understand you, Mr. Gatewood?”