"What's that?"
"Find your wife."
After a moment of puzzled thought, Whitaker admitted ruefully: "You're right. There's the rub."
"I'm afraid you won't find it an easy job. I did my best without uncovering a trace of her."
"You followed up that letter, of course?"
"I did my best; but, my dear fellow, almost anybody with a decent appearance can manage to write a note on Waldorf stationery. I made sure of one thing—the management knew nothing of the writer under either her maiden name or yours."
"Did you try old Thurlow?"
"Her father died within eight weeks from the time you ran away. He left everything to charity, by the way. Unforgiving blighter."
"Well, there's her sister, Mrs. Pettit."
"She heard of the marriage first through me," asserted Drummond. "Your wife had never come near her—nor even sent her a line. She could give me no information whatever."