On Monday he went to see Mr. Keen. It could do no harm; it was too late
to do either harm or good, for his leave expired the next day at noon.

The business of Keen & Co., Tracers of Lost Persons, had grown to
enormous proportions; appointments for a personal interview with Mr.
Keen were now made a week in advance, so when young Harren sent in his
card, the gayly liveried negro servant came back presently, threading
his way through the waiting throng with pomp and circumstance, and
returned the card to Harren with the date of appointment rewritten in
ink across the top. The day named was Wednesday. On Tuesday Harren's
leave expired.

"That won't do," said the young man brusquely; "I must see Mr. Keen
to-day. I wrote last week for an appointment."

The liveried darky was polite but obdurate.

"Dis here am de 'pintment, suh," he explained persuasively.

"But I want to see Mr. Keen at once," insisted Harren.

"Hit ain't no use, suh," said the darky respectfully; "dey's mi'ions an'
mi'ions ob gemmen jess a-settin' roun' an' waitin' foh Mistuh Keen. In
dis here perfeshion, suh, de fustest gemman dat has a 'pintment is de
fustest gemman dat kin see Mistuh Keen. You is a military gemman
yohse'f, Cap'm Harren, an' you is aware dat precedence am de rigger."

The bronzed young man smiled, glanced at the date of appointment written
on his card, which also bore his own name followed by the letters