"She wouldn't want me.... Oh, you think you are right, Hilda. But I know. I lived with her for weeks and I saw how she felt. You're wrong.... No, I'll just FIND her...."

"And leave her as bad off as she was before."

"I'll do anything for her--you know that."

"Except the one thing she can't do without...."

"You don't understand," he said, wearily.

"And you're dense and blind--and that's what makes half the cruelty in the world."

"Let's not--talk about that part of it, Hilda. Will you help me find her?"

"No," said Hilda. "She's where she wants to be. I'm not going to torture her by finding her for you--and then letting her slip back again--into hopelessness. If you'll promise to love her and believe she loves you--I'll try to find her."

Bonbright shook his head.

"Then let her be. No matter where she is, she's better off than she would be if you found her--and she tried to tell you and you wouldn't believe.... You let her be."

"She may be hurt, or sick...."

"If she were she'd let somebody know," said Hilda, but in her own mind was a doubt of this. She knew Ruth, she knew to what heights of fanaticism Ruth's determination could rise, and that the girl was quite capable, more especially in her state of overwrought nerves, of dying in silence.

"I won't help you," she said, firmly.

Bonbright got up slowly, wearily. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you--would help.... I'll have to hunt alone, then...." And before she could make up her mind to speak, to tell him she didn't mean what she said, and that she would search with him and help him, he was gone.

The only thing he could think of to do was to go once more to their apartment and see if any trace of her could be picked up there.

Somebody must have seen her go. Somebody must have seen the furniture going or heard where it was going.... Perhaps somebody might remember the name on the van.

He did not content himself with asking the janitor and his wife, who could tell him nothing. He went from tenant to tenant. Few of them remembered even that such a girl had lived there, for tenants in apartment houses change with the months. But one woman, a spinster of the sort who pa.s.s their days in their windows and fill their lives meagerly by watching what they can see of their neighbors' activities, gave a hint. She was sure she remembered that particular removal on account of the young woman who moved looking so pale and anxious. Yes, she was sure she did, because she told herself that something must have happened, and it excited her to know that something had happened so close to her. Evidently she had itched with curiosity for days.

"It was a green van--I'm sure it was a green van," she said, "because I was working a centerpiece with green leaves, and the van was almost the same shade.... Not quite the same shade, but almost. I held my work up to the window to see, and the van was a little darker...."

"Wasn't there a name on it? Didn't you notice the name?"

The spinster concentrated on that. "Yes, there was a name. Seems to me it began with an 'S,' or maybe it was a 'W.' Now, wasn't that name Walters? No, seems more as if it was Rogers, or maybe Smith. It was one of those, or something like it. Anyhow, I'm sure it began with a 'B.'..."

That was the nearest Bonbright came to gleaning a fact. A green van.

And it might not have been a green van. The spinster's memory seemed uncertain. Probably she had worked more than one centerpiece, not all with green leaves. She was as likely to have worked yellow flowers or a pink design.... But Bonbright had no recourse but to look for a green van.

He drove to the office of a trucking and moving concern and asked if there were green vans. The proprietor said HIS vans were always yellow.

Folks could see them farther and the paint wore better; but all men didn't follow his judgment. Yes, there WERE green vans, though not so good as his, and not so careful of the furniture. He told Bonbright who owned the green vans. It was a storage house.

Bonbright went to the huge brick storage building, and persuaded a clerk to search the records. A bill from Bonbright's pocketbook added to the persuasion.... An hour's wait developed that a green van belonging to the company had moved goods from that address--and the spinster was vindicated.

"Brought 'em here and stored 'em," said the young man. "Here's the name--Frazer. Ruth Frazer."

"That's it," said Bonbright. "That's it."

"Storage hain't been paid.... No word from the party. Maybe she'll show up some day to claim 'em. If not, we'll sell 'em for the charges."

"Didn't she leave any address?"

"Nope."

It had been only a cul de sac. Bonbright had come to the end of it, and had only to retrace his steps. It had led him no nearer to his wife.

What to do now? He didn't see what he could do, or that anybody could do better than he had done.... He thought of going to the police, but rejected that plan. It was repulsive to him and would be repulsive to Ruth.... He might insert a personal in the paper. Such things were done. But if Ruth were ill she would not see it. If she wanted to hide from him she would not reply.

He went to Mrs. Frazer, but Mrs. Frazer only sobbed and bewailed her fate, and stated her opinion of Bonbright in many confused words. It seemed to be her idea that her daughter was dead or kidnapped, and sometimes she appeared to hold both notions simultaneously....

Bonbright got nothing there.

Discouraged, he went back to his office, but not to his work. He could not work. His mind would hold no thought but of Ruth.... He must find her. He MUST.... Nothing mattered unless he could find her, and until he found her he would be good for nothing else.

He tried to pull himself together. "I've got to work," he said. "I've got to think about something else...." But his will was unequal to the performance.... "Where is she?... Where is she?.." The question, the DEMAND, repeated itself over and over and over.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

There was a chance that a specialist, a professional, might find traces of Ruth where Bonbright's untrained eyes missed them altogether. So, convinced that he could do nothing, that he did not in the least know how to go about the search, he retained a firm of discreet, well-recommended searchers for missing persons. With that he had to be content. He still searched, but it was because he had to search; he had to feel that he was trying, doing something, but no one realized the uselessness of it more than himself. He was always looking for her, scanned every face in the crowd, looked up at every window.

In a day or two he was able to force himself to work steadily, unremittingly again. The formula of his patent medicine, with which he was to cure the ills of capital-labor, was taking definite shape, and the professor was enthusiastic. Not that the professor felt any certainty of effecting a permanent cure; he was enthusiastic over it as a huge, splendid experiment. He wanted to see it working and how men would react to it. He had even planned to write a book about it when it should have been in operation long enough to show what its results would be.

Bonbright was sure. He felt that it would bridge the gulf between him and his employees--that gulf which seemed now to be growing wider and deeper instead of disappearing. Mershon's talk was full of labor troubles, of threatened strikes, of consequent delays.

"We can finish thirty days ahead of schedule," he said to Bonbright, "if the unions leave us alone."

"You think I ought to recognize them," Bonbright said. "Well, Mr.

Mershon, if labor wants to cut its own throat by striking--let it strike. I'm giving it work. I'm giving it wages that equal or are higher than union scale. They've no excuse for a strike. I'm willing to do anything within reason, but I'm going to run my own concern. Before I'll let this plant be unionized I'll shut it down. If I can't finish the new shops without recognizing the unions, then they'll stand as they are."

"You're the boss," said Mershon, with a shrug. "Do you know there's to be a ma.s.s meeting in the armory to-night? I think the agitator people are going to try to work the men up to starting trouble."

"You think they'll strike?"

"I KNOW they will."

"All the men, or just the steel workers and bricklayers and temporary employees on the new buildings?"

"I don't know.... But if any of them go out it's going to make things mighty bad."

"I'll see what can be done," said Bonbright.

The strike must be headed off if possible. It would mean a monstrously costly delay; it might mean a forfeiture of his contract with Lightener. It might mean that he had gone into this new project and expended hundreds of thousands of dollars to equip for the manufacture of engines in vain.... The men must not strike.

There seemed no way to avert it but to surrender, and that Bonbright did not even consider.... He called in the professor.