Quarles shrugged his shoulders. He had no answer to give.
"The day after to-morrow, Wigan, we will go to the Agricultural
Institute."
"Why not to-morrow?"
"To-morrow I am busy. Did you know I was writing an article for a psychological review?"
On the following evening I took Zena to a theater—to the Olympic. I suppose I chose the Olympic with a sort of idea that I was keeping in touch with the case I had in hand, that if any one chanced to see me there they would conclude that I was following up some clue. It is hateful to feel that there is nothing to be done, more hateful still that people should imagine you are beaten or are neglecting your work.
Zena told me the professor had been out all day, but she did not know what business he was about. He was certainly not engaged in writing his article.
The Olympic was by no means full that night; the disappearance of the dancer was evidently having a disastrous effect upon the receipts.
The next day I went to the Agricultural Institute with Quarles. He had got a card of introduction to the secretary.
The building had recently been enlarged, and at the top of the first flight of the staircase stood a group representing the triumph of modern methods.
Standing or crouching, and full of energy, were figures symbolic of science and machinery, while in the foreground was a recumbent figure from whose hands the sickle had fallen.