“And do you mean to tell me,” he said, in a hard, angry voice, “that this girl, who was so fond of you that she left her home for you, has forsaken you after a few months of marriage? I can not, I will not believe it; you are keeping something back.”
“An incident came to May’s ears—an incident of my early life,” faltered Temple.
“About some woman, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Churchill.
“Unfortunately about a woman, and—and after that we quarreled, and she left me. She did not tell me she was going; she gave me no hint, or I should never have left her alone. But one night when I returned to our hotel I found she was gone, and though I sought her everywhere, though I put it into the hands of the police, no trace of her, no reliable trace at least, has ever been heard of her, and sometimes—I fear the worst.”
Here Temple broke down; he covered his face with his hand; his agitation was unmistakable.
“You mean that my girl has put an end to herself, though you may have given her great cause for quarreling with you and leaving you? Then I don’t believe it, sir, I tell you that.” And Mr. Churchill struck his hand heavily down on the writing-table as he spoke. “She may have left you, I suppose she has, but she had too much spirit, my May had, to take her life for any such folly.”
“If I could only hope this.”
“You may not only hope it, but be sure of it! But this must be investigated at once. I’ll move heaven and earth to find my girl; ay, and I’ll find her!”
“Would to God that you could.”
“I will; there, I’ve said it, and I seldom say what I do not do. When and how did she disappear? Who saw her last? Tell me everything.”