"I thought you were not certain whether you really could be in love."
The hot color in the Captain's bronzed cheeks mounted to his hair.
"Exactly," purred the Tracer, looking out of the window. "Suppose we walk around to your rooms after luncheon. Shall we?"
Harren picked up his hat and gloves, hesitating, lingering on the threshold. "You don't think she is—a—dead?" he asked unsteadily.
"No," said Mr. Keen, "I don't."
"Because," said Harren wistfully, "her apparition is so superbly healthy and—and glowing with youth and life—"
"That is probably what sent it half the world over to confront you," said the Tracer gravely; "youth and life aglow with spiritual health. I think, Captain, that she has been seeing you, too, during these three years, but probably only in her dreams—memories of your encounters with her subconscious self floating over continents and oceans in a quest of which her waking intelligence is innocently unaware."
The Captain colored like a schoolboy, lingering at the door, hat in hand. Then he straightened up to the full height of his slim but powerful figure.
"At three?" he inquired bluntly.
"At three o'clock in your room, Hotel Vice-Regent. Good morning, Captain."