dazzling radiance, with
no apparent injury to the patient. Dr. Lamour, unfortunately, died
before his investigations, covering over forty years, could be
completed; his widow survived him for a day or two only, leaving sixteen
children.

"Here is a wide and unknown field for medical men to investigate. It is
safe to say that the physician who first discovers the bacillus of
Lamour's Disease and the proper remedy to combat it will reap as his
reward a glory and renown imperishable. Lamour's Disease is a disease
not yet understood--a disease whose termination is believed to be
fatal--a strange disease which seems to render radiant and beautiful the
features of the patient, brightening them with the forewarning of
impending death and the splendid resurrection of immortality."

The Tracer of Lost Persons caressed his chin reflectively. "_Ex_actly,
Miss Smith. So this is the disease which Dr. Hollis has chosen for her
specialty. And only one case on record. _Ex_actly. Thank you."

Miss Smith replaced the papers in the steel cylinder, slipped it into
the pneumatic tube, sent it whizzing below to the safe-deposit vaults,
and, saluting Mr. Keen with a pleasant inclination of her head, went out
of the room.

The Tracer turned in his chair, picked up the daily detective report,
and scanned it until he came to the name Hollis. It appeared that the
daily routine of Rosalind Hollis had not varied during the past three
weeks. In the mornings she was good to the poor with bottles and pills;
in the afternoons she tucked one of Lamour's famous sixteen volumes
under her arm and walked to Central Park, where, with democratic
simplicity, she sat on a secluded bench and pored over the symptoms of
Lamour's Disease. About five she retired to her severely simple
apartments in the big brownstone office building devoted to physicians,
corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue. Here she took tea,
read a little, dined all alone, and retired about nine. This was the
guileless but determined existence of Rosalind Hollis, M.D., according
to McConnell, the detective assigned to observe her.

The Tracer refolded the report of his chief of detectives and
pigeonholed it just as the door opened and a tall, well-built,
attractive young man entered.

Shyness was written all over him; he offered his hand to Mr. Keen with
an embarrassed air and seated himself at that gentleman's invitation.

"I'm almost sorry I ever began this sort of thing," h