The Destroying Angel. Vance Louis Joseph

a bell, and if not exactly a plutocrat, at least better off than I ever expected to be in this life… To all intents and purposes I made her a partner to a bargain she disliked; well, I'll be hanged if I'm going to hedge now, when I look a better matrimonial risk, perhaps: if she still wants my name, she can have it."

      Drummond laughed quietly. "If that's how you feel," he said, "I can only give you one piece of professional advice."

      "What's that?"

      "Find your wife."

      After a moment of puzzled thought, Whitaker admitted ruefully: "You're right. There's the rub."

      "I'm afraid you won't find it an easy job. I did my best without uncovering a trace of her."

      "You followed up that letter, of course?"

      "I did my best; but, my dear fellow, almost anybody with a decent appearance can manage to write a note on Waldorf stationery. I made sure of one thing – the management knew nothing of the writer under either her maiden name or yours."

      "Did you try old Thurlow?"

      "Her father died within eight weeks from the time you ran away. He left everything to charity, by the way. Unforgiving blighter."

      "Well, there's her sister, Mrs. Pettit."

      "She heard of the marriage first through me," asserted Drummond. "Your wife had never come near her – nor even sent her a line. She could give me no information whatever."

      "You don't think she purposely misled you – ?"

      "Frankly I don't. She seemed sincerely worried, when we talked the matter over, and spoke in a most convincing way of her fruitless attempts to trace the young woman through a private detective agency."

      "Still, she may know now," Whitaker said doubtfully. "She may have heard something since. I'll have a word with her myself."

      "Address," observed Drummond, dryly: "the American Embassy, Berlin… Pettit's got some sort of a minor diplomatic berth over there."

      "O the devil!.. But, anyway, I can write."

      "Think it over," Drummond advised. "Maybe it might be kinder not to."

      "Oh, I don't know – "

      "You've given me to understand you were pretty comfy on the other side of the globe. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?"

      "It's the lie that bothers me – the living lie. It isn't fair to her."

      "Rather sudden, this solicitude – what?" Drummond asked with open sarcasm.

      "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 – ?"

      "Oh, hardly." Whitaker's thin brown hand gesticulated vaguely. "She was tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age…"

      "Blonde or brune?"

      "I swear I don't know. She wore one of those funny knitted caps, tight down over her hair, all the time."

      Drummond laughed quietly. "Rather an inconclusive description, especially if you advertise. 'Wanted: the wife I married six years ago and haven't seen since; tall, slender, pale, at the awkward age; wore one of those funny knit – '"

      "I don't feel in a joking humour," Whitaker interrupted roughly. "It's a serious matter and wants serious treatment… What else have we got to mull over?"

      Drummond shrugged suavely. "There's enough to keep us busy for several hours," he said. "For instance, there's my stewardship."

      "Your which?"

      "My care of your property. You left a good deal of money and securities lying round loose, you know; naturally I felt obliged to look after 'em. There was no telling when Widow Whitaker might walk in and demand an accounting. I presume we might as well run over the account – though it is getting late."

      "Half-past four," Whitaker informed him, consulting his watch. "Take too long for to-day. Some other time."

      "To-morrow suit you?"

      "To-morrow's Sunday," Whitaker objected. "But there's no hurry at all."

      Drummond's reply was postponed by the office boy, who popped in on the heels of a light knock.

      "Mr. Max's outside," he announced.

      "O the deuce!" The exclamation seemed to escape Drummond's lips involuntarily. He tightened them angrily, as though regretting the lapse of self-control, and glanced hurriedly askance to see if Whitaker had noticed. "I'm busy," he added, a trace sullenly. "Tell him I've gone out."

      "But he's got 'nappointment," the boy protested. "And besides, I told him you was in."

      "You needn't fob him off on my account," Whitaker interposed. "We can finish our confab later – Monday – any time. It's time for me to be getting up-town, anyway."

      "It isn't that," Drummond explained doggedly. "Only – the man's a bore, and – "

      "It isn't Jules Max?" Whitaker demanded excitedly. "Not little Jules Max, who used to stage manage our amateur shows?"

      "That's the man," Drummond admitted with plain reluctance.

      "Then have him in, by all means. I want to say howdy to him, if nothing more. And then I'll clear out and leave you to his troubles."

      Drummond hesitated; whereupon the office boy, interpreting assent, precipitately vanished to usher in the client. His employer laughed a trifle sourly.

      "Ben's a little too keen about pleasing Max," he said. "I think he looks on him as the fountainhead of free seats. Max has developed into a heavy-weight entrepreneur, you know."

      "Meaning theatrical manager? Then why not say so? But I might've guessed he'd drift into something of the sort."

      A moment later Whitaker was vigorously pumping the unresisting – indeed the apparently boneless – hand of a visibly flabbergasted gentleman, who suffered him for the moment solely upon suspicion, if his expression were a reliable index of his emotion.

      In the heyday of his career as a cunning and successful promoter of plays and players, Jules Max indulged a hankering for the picturesquely eccentric that sat oddly upon his commonplace personality. The hat that had made Hammerstein famous Max had appropriated – straight crown, flat brim and immaculate gloss – bodily. Beneath it his face was small of feature, and fat. Its trim little mustache lent it an air of conventionality curiously at war with a pince-nez which sheltered his near-sighted eyes, its enormous, round, horn-rimmed lenses sagging to one side with the weight of a wide black ribbon. His nose was insignificant, his mouth small and pursy. His short, round little body was invariably by day dressed in a dark gray morning-coat, white-edged waistcoat, assertively-striped trousers, and patent-leather shoes with white spats. He had a passion for lemon-coloured gloves of thinnest kid and slender malacca