"You think that--that it"s likely we are g-going to see--_her_!" he faltered.
"If I were you," mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, joining the tips of his lean fingers meditatively--"If I were you I should wear a silk hat and a frock coat. It"s--it"s afternoon, anyhow," he added deprecatingly, "and we are liable to make a call."
Captain Harren turned like a man in a dream and entered his bedroom. And when he emerged he was dressed and groomed with pathetic precision.
"Mr. Keen," he said, "I--I don"t know why I am d-daring to hope for all s-sorts of things. Nothing you have said really warrants it. But somehow I"m venturing to cherish an absurd notion that I may s-see her."
"Perhaps," said the Tracer, smiling.
"Mr. Keen! You wouldn"t say that if--if there was no chance, would you?
You wouldn"t dash a fellow"s hopes--"
"No, I wouldn"t," said Mr. Keen. "I tell you frankly that I expect to find her."
"To-day?"
"We"ll see," said Mr. Keen guardedly. "Come, Captain, don"t look that way! Courage, sir! We are about to execute a turning movement; but you look like a Russian general on his way to the south front."
Harren managed to laugh; they went out, side by side, descended the elevator, and found a cab at the _porte-cochere_. Mr. Keen gave the directions and followed the Captain into the cab.
"Now," he said, as they wheeled south, "we are first going to visit the Museum of Inscriptions and have this cipher translation verified. Here is the cipher as I copied it. Hold it tightly, Captain; we"ve only a few blocks to drive."
Indeed they were already nearly there. The hansom drew up in front of a plain granite building wedged in between some rather elaborate private dwelling-houses. Over the door were letters of dull bronze:
AMERICAN MUSEUM OF INSCRIPTIONS
and the two men descended and entered a wide marble hall lined with gla.s.s-covered cabinets containing plaster casts of various ancient inscriptions and a few bronze and marble originals. Several female frumps were nosing the exhibits.
An attendant in livery stood in the middle distance. The Tracer walked over to him. "I have an appointment to consult Miss Inwood," he whispered.
"This way, sir," nodded the attendant, and the Tracer signaled the Captain to follow.
They climbed several marble stairways, crossed a rotunda, and entered a room--a sort of library. Beyond was a door which bore the inscription:
a.s.sISTANT CURATOR
"Now," said the Tracer of Lost Persons in a low voice to Captain Harren, "I am going to ask you to sit here for a few minutes while I interview the a.s.sistant curator. You don"t mind, do you?"
"No, I don"t mind," said Harren wearily, "only, when are we going to begin to search for--_her_?"
"Very soon--I may say extremely soon," said Mr. Keen gravely. "By the way, I think I"ll take that sheet of paper on which I copied the cipher.
Thank you. I won"t be long."
The attendant had vanished. Captain Harren sat down by a window and gazed out into the late afternoon sunshine. The Tracer of Lost Persons, treading softly across the carpeted floor, approached the sanctuary, turned the handle, and walked in, carefully closing the door behind him.
There was a young girl seated at a desk by an open window; she looked up quietly as he entered, then rose leisurely.
"Miss Inwood?"
"Yes."
She was slender, dark-eyed, dark-haired--a lovely, wholesome young creature; gracious and graceful. And that was all--for the Tracer of Lost Persons could not see through the eyes of Captain Harren, and perhaps that is why he was not able to discern a miracle of beauty in the pretty girl who confronted him--no magic and matchless marvel of transcendent loveliness--only a quiet, sweet-faced, dark-eyed young girl whose features and figure were attractive in the manner that youth is always attractive. But then it is a gift of the G.o.ds to see through eyes anointed by the G.o.ds.
The Tracer touched his gray mustache and bowed; the girl bowed very sweetly.
"You are Mr. Keen," she said; "you have an inscription for me to translate."
"A mystery for young eyes to interpret," he said, smiling. "May I sit here--and tell my story before I show you my inscription?"
"Please do," she said, seating herself at her desk and facing him, one slender white hand supporting the oval of her face.
The Tracer drew his chair a little forward. "It is a curious matter," he said. "May I give you a brief outline of the details?"
"By all means, Mr. Keen."
"Then let me begin by saying that the inscription of which I have a copy was probably scratched upon a window pane by means of a diamond."
"Oh! Then--then it is not an ancient inscription, Mr. Keen."
"The theme is ancient--the oldest theme in the world--love! The cipher is old--as old as King Solomon." She looked up quickly. The Tracer, apparently engrossed in his own story, went on with it. "Three years ago the young girl who wrote this inscription upon the window pane of her--her bedroom, I think it was--fell in love. Do you follow me, Miss Inwood?"
Miss Inwood sat very still--wide, dark eyes fixed on him.
"Fell in love," repeated the Tracer musingly, "not in the ordinary way.
That is the point, you see. No, she fell in love at first sight; fell in love with a young man whom she never before had seen, never again beheld--and never forgot. Do you still follow me, Miss Inwood?"
She made the slightest motion with her lips.
"No," mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, "she never forgot him. I am not sure, but I think she sometimes dreamed of him. She dreamed of him awake, too. Once she inscribed a message to him, cutting it with the diamond in her ring on the window pane--"
A slight sound escaped from Miss Inwood"s lips. "I beg your pardon,"
said the Tracer, "did you say something?"
The girl had risen, pale, astounded, incredulous.
"Who are you?" she faltered. "What has this--this story to do with me?"
"Child," said the Tracer of Lost Persons, "the Seal of Solomon is a splendid mystery. All of heaven and earth are included within its symbol. And more, more than you dream of, more than I dare fathom; and I am an old man, my child--old, alone, with n.o.body to fear for, nothing to dread, not even the end of all--because I am ready for that, too. Yet I, having nothing on earth to dread, dare not fathom what that symbol may mean, nor what vast powers it may exert on life. G.o.d knows. It may be the very signet of Fate itself; the sign manual of Destiny."
He drew the paper from his pocket, unrolled it, and spread it out under her frightened eyes.
"_That!_" she whispered, steadying herself blindly against the arm he offered. She stood a moment so, then, shuddering, covered her eyes with both hands. The Tracer of Lost Persons looked at her, turned and opened the door.
"Captain Harren!" he called quietly. Harren, pacing the anteroom, turned and came forward. As he entered the door he caught sight of the girl crouching by the window, her face hidden in her hands, and at the same moment she dropped her hands and looked straight at him.
"_You!_" she gasped.
The Tracer of Lost Persons stepped out, closing the door. For a moment he stood there, tall, gaunt, gray, staring vacantly into s.p.a.ce.