“Good Heavens, Agnes, I went straight to the police. Well, he could not be found! Disappeared without trace. Raving mad!”
“Bill Thorndike’s no fool,” said Grand loyally, “I’d stake my word on that.”
“But why did he disappear like that, Guy?” asked Agnes.
“May have moved his offices to another part of the city, you see,” Guy explained, “or out of the city altogether. I know Bill was awfully keen for the West Coast, as a matter of fact; couldn’t get enough of California! Went out there every chance he could.”
“No, he is not anywhere in this country,” said Ginger Horton with considerable authority. “There is absolutely no trace of him.”
“Don’t tell me Bill’s chucked the whole thing,” said Grand reflectively, “given it all up and gone off to Bermuda or somewhere.” He gave a soft tolerant chuckle. “Wouldn’t surprise me too much though at that. I know Bill was awfully fond of fishing too, come to think of it. Yes, fishing and tennis—that was Bill Thorndike all right.”
XVII
“But you just cannot go off like that, Guy,” said Agnes, truly impatient with the boy now when he rose to leave. “Surely you shan’t!”
“Can and must, my dears,” Guy explained, kissing them both. “Flux, motion, growth, change—those are your great life principles. Best keep pace while we can.”
He bent forward and took fat Ginger’s hand in his own. “Yes, I’ll be moving on, Ginger,” he said with a warm smile for her, expansive now, perhaps in anticipation, “pushing down to Canaveral and out Los Alamos way!”