Then John Temple, in broken and faltering words, did tell Mr. Churchill everything he knew of May’s disappearance. Only he kept back the true cause. He gave him the address of the inspector of the police who had conducted the inquiry; he told even the cabman’s story of the lady he had driven to Westminster bridge. But Mr. Churchill would not listen to any such suggestion that May had taken her young life.
“You may have broken her heart, perhaps you have,” he said, harshly, “but my lass was no weak fool to destroy herself for a worthless man! No, she is hiding herself somewhere, and her father will find her. But it’s a pity, Mr. Temple,” he added, bitterly, “that you did not leave her alone.”
“I loved her very dearly. Since she left me my life has been one unending regret.”
“Yet you let another woman come between you! This may be the way of fine gentlemen, but my poor girl, I suppose, would not stand it.”
Temple did not speak; he stood there facing the angry man before him; his heart was full of shame and pain.
“The long and the short of it is, I suppose,” continued Mr. Churchill, “that May believed that you had ceased to love her; or had never loved her as she thought you had, and so she left you. But she should have written to her father! If I had not positively ascertained that you were married to her, if I had not seen the register of your marriage with my own eyes, I would have found you both out long before this. However, as it is—”
“Go to whatever expense you like, Mr. Churchill; find May, and you will lift a weight off my heart that is almost too heavy to bear.”
John Temple spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and Mr. Churchill could not but believe him.
“It’s a queer business,” he said; “if you were fond of her why did you not stick to her? But I’ll start to-night for London.”