Part 9 (2/2)

Drummond's eyebrows went up whimsically. ”You surely don't mean me to infer that your affections are involved?”

This brought Whitaker up standing. ”Good heavens--no!” he cried. He moved to a window and stared rudely at the Post Office Building for a time. ”I'm going to find her just the same--if she still lives,” he announced, turning back.

”Would you know her if you saw her?”

”I don't know.” Whitaker frowned with annoyance. ”She's six years older--”

”A woman often develops and changes amazingly between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.”

”I know,” Whitaker acknowledged with dejection.

”Well, but what _was_ she like?” Drummond pursued curiously.

Whitaker shook his head. ”It's not easy to remember. Matter of fact, I don't believe I ever got one good square look at her. It was twilight in the hotel, when I found her; we sat talking in absolute darkness, toward the end; even in the minister's study there was only a green-shaded lamp on the table; and on the train--well, we were both too much worked up, I fancy, to pay much attention to details.”

”Then you really haven't any idea--?”

”Oh, hardly.” Whitaker's thin brown hand gesticulated vaguely. ”She was tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age....”

”Blonde or brune?”

”I swear I don't know. She wore one of those funny knitted caps, tight down over her hair, all the time.”

Drummond laughed quietly. ”Rather an inconclusive description, especially if you advertise. 'Wanted: the wife I married six years ago and haven't seen since; tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age; wore one of those funny knit--'”

”I don't feel in a joking humour,” Whitaker interrupted roughly. ”It's a serious matter and wants serious treatment.... What else have we got to mull over?”

Drummond shrugged suavely. ”There's enough to keep us busy for several hours,” he said. ”For instance, there's my stewards.h.i.+p.”

”Your which?”

”My care of your property. You left a good deal of money and securities lying round loose, you know; naturally I felt obliged to look after 'em.

There was no telling when Widow Whitaker might walk in and demand an accounting. I presume we might as well run over the account--though it is getting late.”

”Half-past four,” Whitaker informed him, consulting his watch. ”Take too long for to-day. Some other time.”

”To-morrow suit you?”

”To-morrow's Sunday,” Whitaker objected. ”But there's no hurry at all.”

Drummond's reply was postponed by the office boy, who popped in on the heels of a light knock.

”Mr. Max's outside,” he announced.

”O the deuce!” The exclamation seemed to escape Drummond's lips involuntarily. He tightened them angrily, as though regretting the lapse of self-control, and glanced hurriedly askance to see if Whitaker had noticed. ”I'm busy,” he added, a trace sullenly. ”Tell him I've gone out.”

”But he's got 'nappointment,” the boy protested. ”And besides, I told him you was in.”

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