[To himself.] I could do nothing—it’s too late—nothing. Shall I look now? No. What a coward I am! Yes. [He looks over Janet’s shoulder.] Renshaw! [He struggles against his agitation.] The wife! I must think of the wife. [To Janet.] My poor child, the most accurate portrait in the world is poor material towards hunting for a man in this labyrinth of London.
Janet Preece.
Oh, but take it. His face must be familiar to hundreds of men and women in London. I know that he belongs to some of your great clubs and goes to the race-meetings in grand style—he has told me so. And take these. These papers tell you all about me and give an address where you can write to me when you’ve traced him.
Hugh Murray.
I—I can’t undertake this search. It’s useless—it’s useless.
Janet Preece.
No, no—don’t refuse to help me! Your face says you are clever—it’s easy work for you. He isn’t in hiding; he is flaunting about in broad sunlight in your fine parks, maybe with another poor simple girl on his arm. Find him for me! He isn’t a murderer stealing along in the shadow of walls at night-time—he is only a betrayer of women, and men don’t hide for that!
Hugh Murray.
I—I’ll look through this bundle of papers. You shall hear from me to-morrow.
[He is showing Janet to the door when Wilfrid enters.]