The Tracer of Lost Persons

e expect, in Heaven's name? Not the discovery of a woman who had never existed. Yet his excitement and impatience grew as he watched the saddling of his horse; and when at leng

of riders passing, at moments turning to gaze into the woodland vistas where, over the thickets of flowering shrubbery, orioles and robins sped flashing on tinte

you terribly,"

cs and mock-orange hung heavy as incense along the woods. Thei

ments she will be passing. I do not know her name; she

in we shall find her. I doubte

ay be wrong,"

ou can

ked up

how happy you make m

be all wrong-dr

ot be. For do you know that I ha

the saddle, repeating: "Where? Did she pass? How pe

t turn: I have seen her. Ride on:

ted. "I must know w

ery well, then; we'll turn if you insist." And he whe

where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and pass us sooner or later, f

so many kinds of a fool-you can'

tonished; he s

ill. Listen to me: this very beautiful l

n her cheeks. "How-how dare you say that!-after all that has been done

t love

xation started; she faced him,

her breath. "Your friend Mr. Kerns is wro

d amazed. "What the deuce has

d. But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along in silence. In a

effort in your behalf, because, he said, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you the

inate Tommy Kerns!" broke in Gatewood. "What on earth

an well born, well bred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly becoming an idle, cynical, self-centered egoist-a man who, lacking the lash of need or the spur of ambition, was degener

ide her through the brilliant sunshine, wheeled mecha

tely, "you turn on the woman you

vacuum. So I drink-not so very much yet-but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it-now that you have told me. You see, he couldn't tell me, becau

ale as her lev

to you. . . . Look there!

an, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark, incurious eyes

t the p

faltered. "W

ng, Miss S

you had seen her h

, I

k to her befo

before I

oken to her. Is she s

e is sti

edly: "Do you mean to say th

rathe

ness depends on

es

cowardly n

. . . If you wish me to sp

. Show he

a man as I am has a right

to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from t

d her. "Can't you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know

ou!" she stamme

y. "I am a coward. I don't kn

un, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, sav

und he was quite alone, his horse walki

s worth having lived for, after all!"-and was silent. And again: "I could expe

bitter depths he had sunk in; not even when the sound ceased beside him, and horse snorted recognition

other-woman?

ver was a

u s

l. I did not know she e

we were sea

e. . . . And I am not worth it, as you say. An

ent; I am going out of it now." And he swung his horse. At the same moment s

ut of my life without a wo

face surging in color, she lifted her beautiful dark eyes to his as the horses approached, nearer, nearer, until, as they

s and squirrels-nobody but a distant mounted p

ol did all the talking, incoherently enough, but evidently satisfactory to her, judging from the way

m going to give you this horse, and Kerns is to giv

wha

lecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds and squirrels, and a sin