“No, certainly not; we must have no scandal,” John Hale frowned. “You and I must find Polly.”
“Willingly—but how are we to go about it?”
“For one thing, you can call on Mrs. Davis under pretense of wishing to engage Polly as your stenographer, and she will probably give you her present address. You may get more out of her than I did. Frankly,”—John Hale gave an embarrassed laugh—“Mrs. Davis’ manner to me has been very peculiar lately. To-day she appeared almost to resent my questions regarding Polly’s whereabouts.”
Latimer whistled. “So!” he exclaimed. “She may be aiding Polly to avoid you.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” John Hale admitted. “But why? She knows I am Polly’s best friend.”
Latimer took out his cigarette case and offered it to his companion. With his left hand he indicated the box of matches on the smoking stand at Hale’s elbow.
“Have you and Polly quarreled?” he asked.
It took a few seconds for John Hale to light his cigarette. “No,” he said between puffs. Then, removing his cigarette, he looked straight at Latimer. “Polly is everything to me,” he stated solemnly. “I will never give her up. She shall be my wife,” and his clenched fist struck the arm of his chair a resounding blow. “Austin, dead or alive, shall not come between us.”
Latimer looked at him and then away. In the glance he had detected a glimpse of the man he had never seen before—he had never suspected. In that instant a naked soul had been bared in all its human frailties.
“Austin has always been a disappointment to me,” John Hale continued—he spoke almost as if communing with himself and forgetful of Latimer’s presence. “For his mother’s sake I condoned his wild habits while at college, his affairs with women,”—his voice rasped through the room—“then he dared to play fast and loose with Polly.”