his signals, and turn over matters to this charming
pilot.

And now they would come into port together and anchor somewhere east of
Fifth Avenue--which, Kerns reflected, was far more proper a place for
Gatewood than somewhere east of Suez, where young men so often sail.

And yet, and yet there was something melancholy in the pleasure he
experienced. Gatewood was practically lost to him. He knew what might be
expected from engaged men and newly married men. Gatewood's club life
was ended--for a while; and there was no other man with whom he cared to
embark for those brightly lighted harbors twinkling east of Suez across
the metropolitan wastes.

"It's very generous of me to get him married," he said frequently to
himself, rather sadly. "I did it pretty well, too. It only shows that
women have no particular monopoly in the realms of diplomacy and
finesse; in fact, if a man really chooses to put his mind to such
matters, he can make it no trumps and win out behind a bum ace and a
guarded knave."

He was pleased with himself. He followed Gatewood about explaining how
good he had been to him. An enthusiasm for marrying off his friends
began to germinate within him; he tried it on Darrell, on Barnes, on
Yates, but was turned down and severely stung.

Then one day Harren of the Philippine Scouts turned up at the club, and
they held a determined reunion until daylight, and they told each other
all about it all and what upper-cuts life had handed out to them since
the troopship sailed.

And after the rosy glow had deepened to a more gorgeous hue in the room,
and the electric lights had turned into silver pinwheels; and after they
had told each other the story of their lives, and the last siphon fizzed
impotently when urged beyond its capacity, Kerns arose and extended his
hand, and Harren took it. And they executed a song resembling "Auld Lang
Syne."

"Ole man," said Kerns reproachfully, "there's one thing you have been
deuced careful _not_ to mention, and that is about what happened to you
three years ago--"

"Steady!" said Harren; "there is nothing to tell, Tommy."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I never saw her again. I never shall."

Kerns looked long and unsteadily upon his friend; then very gravely
fumbled in his pocket and drew forth the business card of Westrel Keen,
Tracer of Lost Persons.

"That," he said, "will be about all." And he bestowed the card upon
Harren with magnificent condescension.

And about fiv