Part 9 (1/2)
”If I ever find her--yes. It's the only decent thing I can do.”
”How do you figure that?”
”I went away a sick man and a poor one; I come back as sound as a bell, and if not exactly a plutocrat, at least better off than I ever expected to be in this life.... To all intents and purposes I _made_ her a partner to a bargain she disliked; well, I'll be hanged if I'm going to hedge now, when I look a better matrimonial risk, perhaps: if she still wants my name, she can have it.”
Drummond laughed quietly. ”If that's how you feel,” he said, ”I can only give you one piece of professional advice.”
”What's that?”
”Find your wife.”
After a moment of puzzled thought, Whitaker admitted ruefully: ”You're right. There's the rub.”
”I'm afraid you won't find it an easy job. I did my best without uncovering a trace of her.”
”You followed up that letter, of course?”
”I did my best; but, my dear fellow, almost anybody with a decent appearance can manage to write a note on Waldorf stationery. I made sure of one thing--the management knew nothing of the writer under either her maiden name or yours.”
”Did you try old Thurlow?”
”Her father died within eight weeks from the time you ran away. He left everything to charity, by the way. Unforgiving blighter.”
”Well, there's her sister, Mrs. Pett.i.t.”
”She heard of the marriage first through me,” a.s.serted Drummond. ”Your wife had never come near her--nor even sent her a line. She could give me no information whatever.”
”You don't think she purposely misled you--?”
”Frankly I don't. She seemed sincerely worried, when we talked the matter over, and spoke in a most convincing way of her fruitless attempts to trace the young woman through a private detective agency.”
”Still, she may know now,” Whitaker said doubtfully. ”She may have heard something since. I'll have a word with her myself.”
”Address,” observed Drummond, dryly: ”the American Emba.s.sy, Berlin....
Pett.i.t's got some sort of a minor diplomatic berth over there.”
”O the devil!... But, anyway, I can write.”
”Think it over,” Drummond advised. ”Maybe it might be kinder not to.”
”Oh, I don't know--”
”You've given me to understand you were pretty comfy on the other side of the globe. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?”
”It's the lie that bothers me--the living lie. It isn't fair to her.”
”Rather sudden, this solicitude--what?” Drummond asked with open sarcasm.
”I daresay it does look that way. But I can't see that it's the decent thing for me to let things slide any longer. I've got to try to find her. She may be ill--dest.i.tute--in desperate trouble again--”