We took a flat, and lived happily on the
whole, for a month, although with such small quarrels as might be expected.
Two weeks ago she went out and didn't come back. Since then I haven't been
able to find her in New York or at any of the resorts along the Jersey
coast. I suppose she was offended at something I said during a quarrel that
grew out of my insisting on our staying in New York all summer. Knowing her
liking for Atlantic City--she was a Philadelphia girl before she went on
the stage--I came here at once to hunt her up and apologize and agree to
her terms."
"Well?"
"Well, I haven't found her. She's not at any hotel in Atlantic City. I'm
going back to New York to-morrow to get some clue as to where she is."
"I suppose you're very fond of her still?"
"Yes; that's the trouble. And then, of course, a man doesn't like to have
a woman who bears his name going around the country alone, her whereabouts
unknown."
Morrow was on the point of saying: "Or perhaps with some other man," but he
checked himself. He was sufficiently mundane to refrain from attempting to
reason Haddon out of his affection for the fugitive, or to advise him as to
what to do.
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