"Then take her word for it!" snapped Dibdin. "But why the devil didn't you call me last night from the Manhattan?" he turned upon me angrily.
"Why didn't I?" I murmured. "Maybe it's because you've done enough—maybe it's because there are some things a man wants to do without assistance."
Dibdin glanced at me sharply and gave a low whistle.
"Oh, that's it—" he muttered—"I see," and he looked away.
I am certain that at that moment Dibdin read my secret. For his expression swiftly changed. He grew suddenly warm and friendly, more than his usual self.
"A fine job you did there, Randolph," he cried, clapping my shoulder; "an excellent piece of work. I certainly admire your technique. As for Alicia—she didn't go with him—of that I feel sure!" I could have groveled before him in gratitude for those words.
"But where do you suppose she is?" I could not help eagerly asking. There was a gleam of amusement mingled with the sympathy in his eyes.
"Not very far, I imagine. We'll find her. Have no fear. Young girls are funny things. The instinct of sacrifice and the instinct of independence are always struggling in a woman like the twins in Rebekah's womb. When they're young it hits them very hard. Some notion like that must have swamped Alicia—sacrifice—earn her own living—ceasing to be a source of trouble—who knows? They don't think when they're young—or even when they're old. They feel. We'll find her—but we've got to think. Pull yourself together, old man."
"How," I asked in stupefaction, "do you come to know all that about women?" And my heart felt perceptibly lightened at his words.
"Oh, I've been studying them all my life," he laughed. "Never having had one of my own, I've been watching and thinking about the whole sex all over the earth. We'll find her. Have you communicated with the police?"