id 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 nobody 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. God 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 space.

"She _was_ beautiful--when she looked at him," he muttered.

For another minute he stood there, hesitating, glancing backward at the
closed door. Then he went away, stooping slightly, his top hat held
close against the breast of his tightly buttoned frock coat.

CHAPTER XI

During his first year of wedded bliss, Gatewood cut the club. When Kerns
wanted to see him he had to call like other people or, like other
people, accept young Mrs. Gatewood's invitations.

"Why," said Gatewood scornfully, "should I, thirty-four years of age and
safely married, go to a club? Why should I, at my age, idle with a lot
of idlers and listen to stuffy stories from stuffier individuals? Do you
think that stale tobacco smoke, and the idiotically reiterated click of
billiard balls, and the vacant stare of the fashionably brainless, and
the meaningless exchange of banalities with the intellectually aimless
have any attractions for me?"

Mrs. Gatewood raised her pretty eyes in sil