als if every one were able to attain his desires within the law.
Misfortunes breed weird maggots in a man's brain. Drummond's dragging
out a wretched existence in a world of false perspectives; he's not to
be blamed if he presently begins to see things as they are not."

Ember permitted another pause to lengthen, unbroken by Whitaker.

"Shall I try to find him for you?" he asked quietly, in the end.

"No," Whitaker decided. "No. Let him alone--poor devil!"

Ember disclaimed further responsibility with a movement of his
shoulders.

"But my wife? Could you find her as readily?"

"Possibly," the detective admitted cautiously. "But I don't mean to."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't want me to. Do you?"

"No..."

"But principally because she doesn't want me to. Otherwise she'd let you
know where to look for her."

"True."

These fragments of dialogue are from a conversation that took place in
the month of June, nearly seven weeks after the farewell performance at
the Theatre Max. Interim, Whitaker had quietly resumed his place in the
life of the town, regaining old friendships, renewing old associations.
Save for the fact that he pursued no gainful occupation, all with him
was much as it had been: as if the intervening six years of exile had
been blotted out, or had never been. The mild excitement occasioned by
his reappearance had already subsided; he was again an accepted and
substantial factor in the society of his kind.

He had abandoned all thought of returning to New Guinea, entertained,
indeed, no inclination whatever to do so. The life he now led was more
or less normal to him. Yet he was sensible of a growing restlessness. He
had nothing to busy himself with: this was the unguessed secret of his
unsettled temper. And the approach of hot weather was narrowing the
circle of his acquaintances. People were leaving town daily, for Europe,
for the seashore, for the mountains.

He began to receive invitations for week-ends and longer visits out of
town. A few of the former he accepted--always, however, returning to New
York with a sense of necessity strong upon his spirit. Something held
him there, some influence elusive of analysis. He was discontented, but
felt that he could not find content elsewhere.

Gradually he began to know more hours of loneliness than suited his
tastes. His rooms--the old rooms overlooking Bryant Park, regained and
refurnished much as they had been six years before--knew his soli