The Tracer leaned over the photograph, examining it through the glass. And, studying it, he said: "Do you still see her in this photograph, Captain Harren?"
"Certainly. Can you not see her?"
"No," murmured the Tracer, "but I see the window which she really stood by when her phantom came here seeking you. And that is sufficient. Come, Captain Harren, we are going out together."
The Captain looked at him earnestly; something in Mr. Keen's eyes seemed to fascinate him.
"You think that—that it's likely we are g-going to see—her!" he faltered.
"If I were you," mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, joining the tips of his lean fingers meditatively—"If I were you I should wear a silk hat and a frock coat. It's—it's afternoon, anyhow," he added deprecatingly, "and we are liable to make a call."
Captain Harren turned like a man in a dream and entered his bedroom. And when he emerged he was dressed and groomed with pathetic precision.
"Mr. Keen," he said, "I—I don't know why I am d-daring to hope for all s-sorts of things. Nothing you have said really warrants it. But somehow I'm venturing to cherish an absurd notion that I may s-see her."
"Perhaps," said the Tracer, smiling.
"Mr. Keen! You wouldn't say that if—if there was no chance, would you? You wouldn't dash a fellow's hopes—"