"What we want to do," said Gatewood over the telephone, "is to give you
a corking little dinner at the Santa Regina. There'll be Mr. and Mrs.
Tommy Kerns, Captain and Mrs. Harren, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Burke, Mrs.
Gatewood, and myself. We want you to set the date for it, Mr. Keen, and
we also wish you to suggest one more deliriously happy couple whom you
have dragged out of misery and flung head-first into terrestrial
paradise."
"Do you young people really care to do this for me?" asked the Tracer,
laughing.
"Of course we do. We're crazy about it. We want one more couple, and you
to set the date."
There was the slightest pause; then the Tracer's voice, with the same
undertone of amusement ringing through it:
"How would your cousin, Victor Carden, do?"
"He's all right, only he isn't married. We want two people whom you have
joined together after hazard has put them asunder and done stunts with
them."
"Very well; Victor Carden and his very lovely wife will be just the
people."
"Is Victor married?" demanded Gatewood, astonished.
"No," said the Tracer demurely, "but he will be in time for that
dinner." And he set the date for the end of the week in an amused voice,
and rang off.
Then he glanced at the clock, touched an electric bell, and again
unhooking the receiver of the telephone, called up the Sherwood Studios
and asked for Mr. Carden.
"Is _this_ Mr. Carden? Oh, good morning, Mr. Carden! This is Mr. Keen,
Tracer of Lost Persons. Could you make it convenient to call--say in
course of half an hour? Thank you. . . . What? . . . Well, speaking with
that caution and reserve which we are obliged to employ in making any
preliminary statements to our clients, I think I may safely say that you
have every reason to feel moderately encouraged."
"You mean," said Carden's voice, "that you have actually solved the
proposition?"
"It has been a difficult proposition, Mr. Carden; I will not deny that
it has taxed our resources to the uttermost. Over a thousand people,
first and last, have been employed on this case. It has been a slow and
tedious affair, Mr. Carden--tedious for us all. We seldom have a case
continue as long as this has; it is a year ago to-day since you placed
the matter in our hands. . . . What? Well, without committing myself, I
think that I may venture to express a carefully qualified opinion that
the solution of the case is probably practically in the way of being
almost accomplished! . . . Yes, I shall expect you in half an hour.
Good-by!"
The Tracer of Lost Persons' eyes were twinkling as he hung up the
receiver and turned in his revolving chair to meet the pretty young
woman who had entered in response to his ring.
"The Carden case, if you please, Miss Smith," he said, smiling to
himself.
The young woman also smiled; the Carden case had become a classic in the
office. Nobody except Mr. Keen had believed that the case could ever be
solved.
"Safe-deposit box 108923!" said Miss Smith softly, pressing a speaking
tube to her red lips. In a few moments there came a hissing thud from
the pneumatic tube; Miss Smith unlocked it and extracted a smooth, steel
cylinder.
"The combination for that cylinder is A-4-44-11-X," observed the Tracer,
consulting a cipher code, "which, translated," he added, "gives us the
setting combination, One, D, R-R,-J-'24."
Miss Smith turned the movable disks at the end of the cylinder until
the required combination appeared. Then she unscrewed the cylinder head
and dumped out the documents in the famous Carden case.
"As Mr. Carden will be here in half an hour or so I think we had better
run over the case briefly," nodded the Tracer, leaning back in his chair
and composing himself to listen. "Begin with my preliminary memorandum,
Miss Smith."
"Case 108923," began the girl. Then she read the date, Carden's full
name, Victor Carden, a terse biography of the same gentleman, and added:
"Case accepted. Contingent fee, $5,000."
"Quite so," said Mr. Keen; "now, run through the minutes of the first
interview."
And Miss Smith unrolled a typewritten scroll and read:
"Victor Carden, Esquire, the well-known artist, called this evening at
6.30. Tall, well-bred, good appearance, very handsome; very much
embarrassed. Questioned by Mr. Keen he turned pink, and looked timidly
at the stenographer (Miss Colt). Asked if he might not see Mr. Keen
alone, Miss Colt retired. Mr. Keen set the recording phonograph in
motion by dropping his elbow on his desk."
A brief _résumé_ of the cylinder records followed:
"Mr. Carden asked Mr. Keen if he (Mr. Keen) knew who he (Mr. Carden)
was. Mr. Keen replied that everybody knew Mr. Carden, the celebrated
painter and illustrator who had created the popular type of beauty known
as the 'Carden Girl.' Mr. Carden blushed and fidgeted. (_Notes from. Mr.
Keen's Observation Book, pp. 291-297._) Admitted that he was the creator
of the 'Carden Girl.' Admitted he had drawn and painted that particular
type of feminine beauty many times. Fidgeted some more. (_Keen's O.B.,
pp. 298-299._) Volunteered the statement that this type of beauty, known
as the 'Carden Girl,' was the cause of great unhappiness to himself.
Questioned, turned pinker and fidgeted. (_K.O.B., page 300._) Denied
that his present trouble was caused by the model who had posed for the
'Carden Girl.' Explained that a number of assorted models had posed for
that type of beauty. Further explained that none of them resembled the
type; that the type was his own creation; that he used models merely for
the anatomy, and that he always idealized form and features.
"Questioned again, admitted that the features of the 'Carden Girl' were
his ideal of the highest and loveliest type of feminine beauty. Did not
deny that he had fallen in love with his own creation. Turned red and
tried to smoke. (_K.O.B., page 303._) Admitted he had been fascinated
himself with his own rendering of a type of beauty which he had never
seen anywhere except as rendered by his own pencil on paper or on
canvas. Fidgeted. (_K.O.B., page 304._) Admitted that he could easily
fall in love with a woman who resembled the 'Carden Girl.' Didn't
believe she ever really existed. Confessed he had hoped for years to
encounter her, but had begun to despair. Admitted that he had ventured
to think that Mr. Keen might trace such a girl for him. Doubted Mr.
Keen's success. Fidgeted (_K.O.B., page 306_), and asked Mr. Keen to
take the case. Promised to send to Mr. Keen a painting in oil which
embodied his loftiest ideal of the type known as the 'Carden Girl.'
(_Portrait received; lithographs made and distributed to our agents
according to routine, from Canada to Mexico and from the Atlantic to the
Pacific._)
"Mr. Keen terminated the interview with characteristic tact, accepting
the case on the contingent fee of $5,000."
"Very well," said the Tracer, as Miss Smith rolled up the scroll and
looked at him for further instructions. "Now, perhaps you had better run
over the short summary of proceedings to date. I mean the digest which
you will find attached to the completed records."
Miss Smith found the paper, unrolled it, and read:
"During the twelve months' investigation and search (_in re Carden_)
seven hundred and nine young women were discovered who resembled very
closely the type sought for. By process of elimination, owing to defects
in figure, features, speech, breeding, etc., etc., this list was cut
down to three. One of these occasionally chewed gum, but otherwise
resembled the type. The second married before the investigation of her
habits could be completed. The third is apparently a flawless replica of
Mr. Carden's original in face, figure, breeding, education, moral and
mental habits. (_See Document 23, A._)"
"Read Document 23, A," nodded Mr. Keen.
And Miss Smith read:
ROSALIND HOLLIS, M.D.
Age . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Height . . . . . . 5 feet 9 inches
Weight . . . . . . . . 160 pounds
Thick, bright, ruddy
Hair . . . . . . golden, and inclined
to curl.
Teeth . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Eyes . . . . . . . Dark violet-blue
Mouth . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Color . . . . Fair. An ivory-tinted
blonde.
Figure . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Health . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Temper . . . . . . . . . Feminine
Austere, with a
Habits . . . . resolutely suppressed
capacity for romance.
Business . . . . . . . . . None
Profession . . . . . . . Physician
Mania . . . . . . . . A Mission
"NOTE.--Dr. Rosalind Hollis was presented to society in her eighteenth
year. At the end of her second season she withdrew from society with the
determination to devote her entire life to charity. Settlement work and
the study of medicine have occupied her constantly. Recently admitted to
practice, she spends her mornings in visiting the poor, whom she treats
free of all charge; her afternoons and evenings are devoted to what she
expects is to be her specialty: the study of the rare malady known as
Lamour's Disease. (_See note on second page._)
"It is understood that Dr. Hollis has abjured the society of all men
other than her patients and such of her professional _confrères_ as she
is obliged to consult or work with. Her theory is that of the beehive:
drones for mates, workers for work. She adds, very decidedly, that she
belongs to the latter division, and means to remain there permanently.
"NOTE (_Mr. Keen's O.B., pp. 916-18_).--Her eccentricity is probably the
result of a fine, wholesome, highly strung young girl taking life and
herself too seriously. The remedy will be the _Right Man_."
"_Ex_actly," nodded Mr. Keen, joining the tips of his thin fingers and
partly closing his eyes. "Now, Miss Smith, the disease which Dr. Hollis
intends to make her specialty--have you any notes on that?"
"Here they are," said Miss Smith; and she read: "Lamour's Disease; the
rarest of all known diseases; first discovered and described by Ero S.
Lamour, M.D., M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H., in 1861. Only a single case has ever
been observed. This case is fully described in Dr. Lamour's superb and
monumental work in sixteen volumes. Briefly, the disease appears without
any known cause, and is ultimately supposed to result fatally. The first
symptom is the appearance of a faintly bluish circle under the eyes, as
though the patient was accustomed to using the eyes too steadily at
times. Sometimes a slight degree of fever accompanies this
manifestation; pulse and temperature vary. The patient is apparently in
excellent health, but liable to loss of appetite, restlessness, and a
sudden flushing of the face. These symptoms are followed by others
unmistakable: the patient becomes silent at times; at times evinces a
weakness for sentimental expressions; flushes easily; is easily
depressed; will sit for hours looking at one person; and, if not
checked, will exhibit impulsive symptoms of affection for the opposite
sex. The strangest symptom of all, however, is the physical change in
the patient, whose features and figure, under the trained eye of the
observer, gradually from day to day assume the symmetry and charm of a
beauty almost unearthly, sometimes accompanied by a spiritual pallor
which is unmistakable in confirming the diagnosis, and which, Dr. Lamour
believes, presages the inexorable approach of immortality.
"There is no known remedy for Lamour's Disease. The only case on record
is the case of the young lady described by Dr. Lamour, who watched her
for years with unexampled patience and enthusiasm; finally, in the
interest of science, marrying his patient in order to devote his life
to a study of her symptoms. Unfortunately, some of these disappeared
early--within a week--but the curious manifestation of physical beauty
remained, and continued to increase daily to a 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," he blurted out, like
a big schoolboy appalled at his own misdemeanors. "The truth is, Mr.
Keen, that the prospect of actually seeing a 'Carden Girl' alive has
scared me through and through. I've a notion that my business with that
sort of a girl ends when I've drawn her picture."
"But surely," said the Tracer mildly, "you have some natural curiosity
to see the living copy of your charming but inanimate originals, haven't
you, Mr. Carden?"
"Yes--oh, certainly. I'd like to see one of them alive--say out of a
window, or from a cab. I should not care to be too close to her."
"But merely seeing her does not commit you," interposed Mr. Keen,
smiling. "She is far too busy, too much absorbed in her own affairs to
take any notice of you. I understand that she has something of an
aversion for men."
"Aversion!"
"Well, she excludes them as unnecessary to her existence."
"Why?" asked Carden.
"Because she has a mission in life," said Mr. Keen gravely.
Carden looked out of the window. It was pleasant weather--June in all
its early loveliness--the fifth day of June. The sixth was his birthday.
"I've simply got to marry somebody before the day after to-morrow," he
said aloud--"that is, if I want my legacy."
"What!" demanded the Tracer sharply.
Carden turned, pink and guilty. "I didn't tell you all the circumstances
of my case," he said. "I suppose I ought to have done so."
"_Ex_actly," said the Tracer severely. "Why is it necessary that you
marry somebody before the day after to-morrow?"
"Well, it's my twenty-fifth birthday--"
"Somebody has left you money on condition that you marry before your
twenty-fifth birthday? Is that it, Mr. Carden? An uncle? An imbecile
grandfather? A sentimental aunt?"
"My Aunt Tabby Van Beekman."
"Where is she?"
"In Trinity churchyard. It's too late to expostulate with her, you see.
Besides, it wouldn't have done any good when she was alive."
The Tracer knitted his brows, musing, the points of his slim fingers
joined.
"She was very proud, very autocratic," said Carden. "I am the last of
my race and my aunt was determined that the race should not die out with
me. I don't want to marry and increase, but she's trying to make me. At
all events, I am not going to marry any woman inferior to the type I
have created with my pencil--what the public calls the 'Carden Girl.'
And now you see that your discovery of this living type comes rather
late. In two days I must be legally married if I want my Aunt Tabby's
legacy; and to-day for the first time I hear of a girl who, you assure
me, compares favorably to my copyrighted type, but who has a mission and
an aversion to men. So you see, Mr. Keen, that the matter is perfectly
hopeless."
"I don't see anything of the kind," said Mr. Keen firmly.
"What?--do you believe there is any chance--"
"Of your falling in love within the next hour or so? Yes, I do. I think
there is every chance of it. I am sure of it. But that is not the
difficulty. The problem is far more complicated."
"You mean--"
"_Ex_actly; how to marry that girl before day after to-morrow. That's
the problem, Mr. Carden!--not whether you are capable of falling in
love with her. I have seen her; I _know_ you can't avoid falling in
love with her. Nobody could. I myself am on the verge of it; and I am
fifty: you can't avoid loving her."
"If that were so," said Carden gravely; "if I were really going to fall
in love with her--I would not care a rap about my Aunt Tabby and her
money--"
"You ought to care about it for this young girl's sake. That legacy is
virtually hers, not yours. She has a right to it. No man can ever give
enough to the woman he loves; no man has ever done so. What _she_ gives
and what _he_ gives are never a fair exchange. If you can balance the
account in any measure, it is your duty to do it. Mr. Carden, if she
comes to love you she may think it very fine that you bring to her your
love, yourself, your fame, your talents, your success, your position,
your gratifying income. But I tell you it's not enough to balance the
account. It is never enough--no, not all your devotion to her included!
You can never balance the account on earth--all you can do is to try to
balance it materially and spiritually. Therefore I say, endow her with
_all_ your earthly goods. Give all you can in every way to lighten as
much as possible man's hopeless debt to all women who have ever loved."
"You talk about it as though I were already committed," said Carden,
astonished.
"You are, morally. For a month I have, without her knowledge, it is
true, invaded the privacy of a very lovely young girl--studied her
minutely, possessed myself of her history, informed myself of her
habits. What excuse had I for this unless I desired her happiness and
yours? Nobody could offer me any inducement to engage in such a practice
unless I believed that the means might justify a moral conclusion. And
the moral conclusion of this investigation is your marriage to her."
"Certainly," said Carden uneasily, "but how are we going to accomplish
it by to-morrow? How is it going to be accomplished at all?"
The Tracer of Lost Persons rose and began to pace the long rug, clasping
his hands behind his back. Minute after minute sped; Carden stared
alternately at Mr. Keen and at the blue sky through the open window.
"It is seldom," said Mr. Keen with evident annoyance, "that I personally
take any spectacular part in the actual and concrete demonstrations
necessary to a successful conclusion of a client's case. But I've got to
do it this time."
He went to a cupboard, picked out a gray wig and gray side whiskers and
deliberately waved them at Carden.
"You see what these look like?" he demanded.
"Y-yes."
"Very well. It is now noon. Do you know the Park? Do you happen to
recollect a shady turn in the path after you cross the bridge over the
swan lake? Here; I'll draw it for you. Now, here is the lake; here's the
esplanade and fountain, you see. Here's the path. You follow
it--so!--around the lake, across the bridge, then following the lake to
the right--so!--then up the wooded slope to the left--so! Now, here is a
bench. I mark it Number One. _She_ sits there with her book--there she
is!"
"If she looks like _that_--" began Carden. And they both laughed with
the slightest trace of excitement.
"Here is Bench Number Two!" resumed the Tracer. "Here you sit--and there
you are!"
[Illustration: MR. KEEN'S SKETCH OF THE RENDEZVOUS]
"Thanks," said Carden, laughing again.
"Now," continued the Tracer, "you must be there at one o'clock. She will
be there at one-thirty, or earlier perhaps. A little later I will become
benignly visible. Your part is merely a thinking part; you are to do
nothing, say nothing, unless spoken to. And when you are spoken to you
are to acquiesce in whatever anybody says to you, and you are to do
whatever anybody requests you to do. And, above all, don't be surprised
at _anything_ that may happen. You'll be nervous enough; I expect that.
You'll probably color up and flush and fidget; I expect that; I count on
that. But don't lose your nerve entirely; and don't think of attempting
to escape."
"Escape! From what? From whom?"
"From her."
"_Her?_"
"Are you going to follow my instructions?" demanded the Tracer of Lost
Persons.
"I--y-yes, of course."
"Very well, then, I am going to rub some of this under your eyes." And
Mr. Keen produced a make-up box and, walking over to Carden, calmly
darkened the skin under his eyes.
"I look as though I had been on a bat!" exclaimed Carden, surveying
himself in a mirror. "Do you think any girl could find any attraction in
such a countenance?"
"_She_ will," observed the Tracer meaningly. "Now, Mr. Carden, one last
word: The moment you find yourself in love with her, and the first
moment you have the chance to do so decently, make love to her. She
won't dismiss you; she will repulse you, of course, but she won't let
you go. I know what I am saying; all I ask of you is to promise on your
honor to carry out these instructions. Do you promise?"
"I do."
"Then here is the map of the rendezvous which I have drawn. Be there
promptly. Good morning."