"You don't think she purposely misled you—?"
"Frankly I don't. She seemed sincerely worried, when we talked the matter over, and spoke in a most convincing way of her fruitless attempts to trace the young woman through a private detective agency."
"Still, she may know now," Whitaker said doubtfully. "She may have heard something since. I'll have a word with her myself."
"Address," observed Drummond, dryly: "the American Embassy, Berlin.... Pettit's got some sort of a minor diplomatic berth over there."
"O the devil!... But, anyway, I can write."
"Think it over," Drummond advised. "Maybe it might be kinder not to."
"Oh, I don't know—"
"You've given me to understand you were pretty comfy on the other side of the globe. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?"
"It's the lie that bothers me—the living lie. It isn't fair to her."
"Rather sudden, this solicitude—what?" Drummond asked with open sarcasm.