re 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 impendin