The Tracer of Lost Persons
-Regent that afternoon he found the young man standing at a center table, penci
Harren pointed grimly to the confusion of letters and fig
id with a short laugh. "Can you ma
bet and Roman and Arabic numerals. He dropped it presently and picked u
ile, then glanced inte
s no use. That's lunatics' work." He wheeled squarely on his heels, loo
men than you or I have spent a lifetime over this so-calle
arren: "What," he asked, "has the S
ed Harren, an
ited; Harren
s the ph
the table, hesitated, look
ed than this. There is only one thing in the world that could ju
he mere desire to find the living original of this apparitio
cer. A dull flush mounted to his forehead, and very slow
features absolutely devoid of expression. Harren had drawn his chair beside him, and now
hotograph taken?" ask
before dressing for dinner. It was growing rather dark in the room; I had not turned on the electric light. My c
y on his elbow, eyes
g for dinner, when my eyes happened to fall on the camera. It occurred to me that I might as well unloa
d the Trac
toward the window where there rem
er nodde
!" said Harren
he
ow. You can see the window a
zed intently
. "She was as real as you are, and she stood there,
you s
N
did she re
misgiving, that dreadful doubt of my own sanity. . . . I scarcely knew what I was doing when I took the photograph; besides, it had grown quite dark, and I co
acer coolly. "It has
living pe
ms, we must call, for lack of a bett
gether. Presently the Tracer sai
unclosed, but he
t?" repeated the Tracer, tur
e she is?" he a
aid the
stared
ee nothing upon this bit of paper that resembles
turne
almly. "I simply repeat that I see absolutely nothing on thi
s sake!" cried
yet. Wait; let
anded Harren, laying his shaking finger on the photograph. "Why, man, it is as clear, as clean cut, as distinct a
. W
an't see it, but that it is doubtless there? Are you deceiving me, Mr. Keen? Are yo
than I am. I tell you that I can
leaning close and examining the glass. Harren
arks on the glass
shook h
ifying glass?" a
eturned to the photograph, the Tracer bendin
ner of a curtain and a window on which certain figures seem to
e marks-so
written on that pane-as
ng dis
ou see
fect
nute d
es
t a moment: "Does
an't yo
it f
ren drew a rough sketch of the ring which he
er, "she wears the Seal
on the belts of dead ladrones, on the hilts of creeses, on the funnels of steamers, on the headstalls of horses. If they put a laundry mark on my linen it's certain
ry to work out its mystical meani
ol somewhere about her. . . . I told you she never spoke to me. That is true; yet once
ll
ou wish to know
it was a
lighted by the sun, and in her hands she held masses of that wild flower we call Solomon's Seal. And she said-in the voice I know must be like h
sage in the seal? Is
, burying her face in
e plainly for you some day;
; but I must have confused her with the glimmering shafts of sunlight, and in a little w
then leaned over the photograph once more, which the Tr
hotograph which I'm going to copy," he said
his right hand, Mr. Keen picked up the pencil and, feeling for t
uttered Captain Harren, twisting
ass written on the window pane in the photograph,"
hem before particularly-only t
k he sat, chin on hand, examining it in silenc
atiently; "do those scratches repres
rtment, secret military codes, elaborate Oriental ciphers, symbols used in commercial transactions, symbols used by criminals and every species of malefactor. And ev
mpl
simple that i
oing to be able to find a mea
going to be so very dif
Do you mean to say that you can u
amine it for repetitions fir
oice ceased; for a quarter of an hour he pored over the symbols, pen
e cipher. I have a notion that numbers play a part in it-you see where thes
ur he remained motionless, immersed in the problem bef