"You ... you haven't been there yet, then?" Barry hated himself for his fatuity as he put the question.
"No. Fact is, I was a perfect savage when I landed ... a beard half a yard long!" He laughed jovially. "Had to get trimmed up a bit ... but in any case she would probably have been out somewhere or other to-night."
"Yes. I see."
"But first thing in the morning, it's a taxi for mine, as the Americans say. And I shall catch her alone, after breakfast, before anyone's about."
"Yea." Barry paused, cursing himself for his cowardice, and then plunged recklessly into the quicksand before him. "Owen, old man, have you heard anything about Miss Rees lately?"
"Heard anything?" He laid down his pipe and stared at his questioner. "Why should I hear anything? What is there to hear?"
Before replying Barry rose, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece; and as he looked down on his friend his heart was wrung within him at the cruelty of fate.
"You ... you've not seen her name in the papers?" His throat was dry, but he went on bravely.
"Papers? I've not looked at a newspaper for months. And anyway, what should I see about Vivian in any paper?"
"Only ... I thought you might have done." Barry was finding his task almost incredibly hard, and his brow was pearled with fine drops of moisture as he stood before his friend.