"Come on. Be a sport. Have a good scratch on me."
Whitaker grinned reluctantly and briefly.
"Where's my wife?" he demanded abruptly.
"How in blazes—!"
"There you are!" Whitaker complained. "You make great pretensions, and yet you fall down flat on your foolish face three times in less than as many hours. You don't know who the Fiskes are, you've lost track of your pet myth, Drummond, and you don't know where I can find my wife. And yet I'm expected to stand round with my mouth open, playing Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes. I could go to that telephone and consult 'Information' to better advantage!"
"What you need," retorted the other, unmoved, "is a clairvoyant, not a detective. If you can't keep track of your trial marriages yourself...!"
He shrugged.
"Then you don't know—haven't the least idea where she is?"
"My dear man, I myself am beginning to doubt her existence."
"I don't see why the dickens she doesn't go ahead with those divorce proceedings!" Whitaker remarked morosely.