WESTREL KEEN, Manager.
"Mistuh Keen will see you, suh," came a persuasive voice at his elbow; and he rose and followed the softly moving colored servant out of the room, through a labyrinth of demure young women at their typewriters, then sharply to the right and into a big, handsomely furnished office, where a sleepy-looking elderly gentleman rose from an armchair and bowed. There could not be the slightest doubt that he was a gentleman; every movement, every sound he uttered, settled the fact.
"Mr. Keen?"
"Mr. Gatewood?"—with a quiet certainty which had its charm. "This is very good of you."
Gatewood sat down and looked at his host. Then he said: "I'm searching for somebody, Mr. Keen, whom you are not likely to find."
"I doubt it," said Keen pleasantly.
Gatewood smiled. "If," he said, "you will undertake to find the person I cannot find, I must ask you to accept a retainer."
"We don't require retainers," replied Keen. "Unless we find the person sought for, we make no charges, Mr. Gatewood."
"I must ask you to do so in my case. It is not fair that you should undertake it on other terms. I desire to make a special arrangement with you. Do you mind?"
"What arrangement had you contemplated?" inquired Keen, amused.