"With a man called McPhelan—you know who he is, I presume."
"Good God!"
Braine stops in the road and looks helplessly into Everet's face. He moans:
"Don't say that, Everet! Don't say that! Not Helen! It was not she. It was some other."
"And after all, dear Braine, what is the difference? A Sixth Ward politician, or a member of the cabinet."
He has thrown his arm across Braine's shoulders. His tone is one of tenderest sympathy, but there is a certain sternness in it.
Braine's strong body trembles like a weak child's. He says, hoarsely:
"I must go and find her. I must, Everet."
"No, no. No one could do more than I can in such a matter. I will look until I find her, or know that she is dead. I will obey your least direction, your slightest wish in this, but grant what I ask of you. Don't go to find her. Think, Braine! Think what it would be to learn such things from strangers; think what it would be to learn the details of so pitiful a life from those who cared nothing for your grief. It is right you should know them—but hear them from me. I love you. I loved Helen—the Helen you have known. You surely can bear these things better from me."
"Yes, yes. God bless you, Everet. You're the truest friend a man ever had. But promise me, promise me you will leave no stone unturned?"