"And you're dense and blind—and that's what makes half the cruelty in the world."
"Let's not—talk about that part of it, Hilda. Will you help me find her?"
"No," said Hilda. "She's where she wants to be. I'm not going to torture her by finding her for you—and then letting her slip back again—into hopelessness. If you'll promise to love her and believe she loves you—I'll try to find her."
Bonbright shook his head.
"Then let her be. No matter where she is, she's better off than she would be if you found her—and she tried to tell you and you wouldn't believe…. You let her be."
"She may be hurt, or sick…."
"If she were she'd let somebody know," said Hilda, but in her own mind was a doubt of this. She knew Ruth, she knew to what heights of fanaticism Ruth's determination could rise, and that the girl was quite capable, more especially in her state of overwrought nerves, of dying in silence.
"I won't help you," she said, firmly.
Bonbright got up slowly, wearily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you—would help…. I'll have to hunt alone, then…." And before she could make up her mind to speak, to tell him she didn't mean what she said, and that she would search with him and help him, he was gone.
The only thing he could think of to do was to go once more to their apartment and see if any trace of her could be picked up there. Somebody must have seen her go. Somebody must have seen the furniture going or heard where it was going…. Perhaps somebody might remember the name on the van.