The Tracer of Lost Persons

He was thirty-three, agreeable to look at, equipped with as much culture and intelligence as is tolerated east of Fifth Avenue and west of Madison. He had a couple of elaborate rooms at the Lenox Club, a larger income than seemed to be good for him, and no profession. It follows that he was a pessimist before breakfast. Besides, it's a bad thing for a man at thirty-three to come to the conclusion that he has seen all the most attractive girls in the world and that they have been vastly overrated. So, when a club servant with gilt buttons on his coat tails knocked at the door, the invitation to enter was not very cordial. He of the buttons knocked again to take the edge off before he entered; then opened the door and unburdened himself as follows: "Mr. Gatewood, sir, Mr. Kerns's compliments, and wishes to know if 'e may 'ave 'is coffee served at your tyble, sir." Gatewood, before the mirror, gave a vicious twist to his tie, inserted a pearl scarf pin, and regarded the effect with gloomy approval. "Say to Mr. Kerns that I am-flattered," he replied morosely; "and tell Henry I want him." "'Enry, sir? Yes, sir." The servant left; one of the sleek club valets came in, softly sidling. "Henry!" "Sir?" "I'll wear a white waistcoat, if you don't object." The valet laid out half a dozen. "Which one do you usually wear when I'm away, Henry? Which is your favorite?" "Sir?"