"Mr. Keen will receive you--"

"He may be busy."

"He may be," she repeated dreamily.

"So--I'll ask for you."

"We _could_ write you, Mr. Gatewood."

He said hastily: "It's no trouble for me to come; I walk every
morning."

"But there would be no use, I think, in your coming very soon. All
I--all Mr. Keen could do for a while would be to report progress--"

"That is all I dare look for: progress--for the present."

During the time that he remained--which was not very long--neither of
them spoke until he arose to take his departure.

"Good-by, Miss Southerland. I hope you may find the person I have been
searching for."

"Good-by, Mr. Gatewood. . . . I hope we shall; . . . but
I--don't--know."

And, as a matter of fact, she did not know; she was rather excited over
nothing, apparently; and also somewhat preoccupied with several rather
disturbing emotions the species of which she was interested in