“That’s what I meant, anyhow,” he said, flushing up.

“You did mean it?”

“I did:  I do.”

“Then we take your case, Mr. Gatewood. . . .  No haste about the check, my dear sir—­pray consider us at your service.”

But Gatewood doggedly filled in the check and handed it to the Tracer of Lost Persons.

“I wish you happiness,” said the older man in a low voice.  “The lady you describe exists; it is for us to discover her.”

“Thank you,” stammered Gatewood, astounded.

Keen touched an electric button; a moment later a young girl entered the room.

“Miss Southerland, Mr. Gatewood.  Will you be kind enough to take Mr. Gatewood’s dictation in Room 19?”

For a second Gatewood stared—­as though in the young girl before him the ghost of his ideal had risen to confront him—­only for a second; then he bowed, matching her perfect acknowledgment of his presence by a bearing and courtesy which must have been inbred to be so faultless.

And he followed her to Room 19.

What had Keen meant by saying, “The lady you describe exists!” Did this remarkable elderly gentleman suspect that it was to be a hunt for an ideal?  Had he deliberately entered into such a bargain?  Impossible!

His disturbed thoughts reverted to the terms of the bargain, the entire enterprise, the figures on his check.  His own amazing imbecility appalled him.  What idiocy!  What sudden madness had seized him to entangle himself in such unheard-of negotiations!  True, he had played bridge until dawn the night before, but, on awaking, he had discovered no perceptible hold-over.  It must have been sheer weakness of intellect that permitted him to be dominated by the suggestions of Kerns.  And now the game was on:  the jack declared, cards dealt, and his ante was up.  Had he openers?

Room 19, duly labeled with its number on the opaque glass door, contained a desk, a table and typewriter, several comfortable chairs, and a window opening on Fifth Avenue, through which the eastern sun poured a stream of glory, washing curtain, walls, and ceiling with palest gold.

And all this time, preoccupied with new impressions and his own growing chagrin, he watched the girl who conducted him with all the unconscious assurance and grace of a young chatelaine passing through her own domain under escort of a distinguished guest.

When they had entered Room 19, she half turned, but he forestalled her and closed the door, and she passed before him with a perceptible inclination of her finely modeled head, seating herself at the desk by the open window.  He took an armchair at her elbow and removed his gloves, looking at her expectantly.

CHAPTER III