"I daresay it does look that way. But I can't see that it's the decent thing for me to let things slide any longer. I've got to try to find her. She may be ill—destitute—in desperate trouble again—"
Drummond's eyebrows went up whimsically. "You surely don't mean me to infer that your affections are involved?"
This brought Whitaker up standing. "Good heavens—no!" he cried. He moved to a window and stared rudely at the Post Office Building for a time. "I'm going to find her just the same—if she still lives," he announced, turning back.
"Would you know her if you saw her?"
"I don't know." Whitaker frowned with annoyance. "She's six years older—"
"A woman often develops and changes amazingly between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four."
"I know," Whitaker acknowledged with dejection.
"Well, but what was she like?" Drummond pursued curiously.
Whitaker shook his head. "It's not easy to remember. Matter of fact, I don't believe I ever got one good square look at her. It was twilight in the hotel, when I found her; we sat talking in absolute darkness, toward the end; even in the minister's study there was only a green-shaded lamp on the table; and on the train—well, we were both too much worked up, I fancy, to pay much attention to details."
"Then you really haven't any idea—?"