Dulac came a step nearer the desk. Something in Bonbright's voice and manner compelled, if not his sympathy, at least something which resembled respect.
"Do you mean you don't know where Ruth is?" he asked.
"No."
"You thought she was with me?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Foote, she isn't with me…. I wish to God she was. I've seen her only once since—that evening. It was by accident, on the street. … I tried to see her. I found the place empty, and nobody knew where she'd gone. Even her mother didn't know. I thought you had sent her away."
"Dulac," said Bonbright, leaning forward as though drawn by spasmodic contraction of tense muscles, "is this true?"
For once Dulac did not become theatrical, did not pose, did not reply to this doubt, as became labor flouting capital. Perhaps it was because the matter lay as close to his stormy heart as it did to Bonbright's. "Yes," he said.
"Then where…"
"I don't—know."