"Suppose he should turn up tomorrow, though?" I asks.
"Oh, but he couldn't," says Whitey quick. "That is, if he's really lost or—or anything has happened to him. What makes you think he might show up, Torchy?"
"Just a hunch of mine," says I. "I was thinking maybe some of his friends might find him somewhere."
"I'd like to see 'em," says Whitey emphatic. "It—it would be worth a good deal to us."
"Yes," says I, "I know how you feel about it. Much obliged, Whitey. I guess that's all we can do; eh, Mr. Robert?"
But we're no sooner out of the office than I gives him the nudge.
"Bunk!" says I. "I'd bet a million of somebody else's money that this is just one of Whitey's smooth frame-ups."
"I hardly think I follow you," says Mr. Robert.
"Here's the idea," says I. "When 'The Buccaneer's Bride' was having that two-year run Penrhyn Deems was a good deal in the spotlight. He had write-ups reg'lar, full pages in the Sunday editions, new pictures of himself printed every few weeks. He didn't hate it, did he? But these last two pieces of his were frosts. All he's had recent have been roasts, or no mention at all. And it was up to Whitey to bring him back into the public eye, wasn't it? Trust Whitey for doing that."
"But this method would be so thoroughly cold-blooded, heartless," protests Mr. Robert.