"Because she is a woman," I replied. "Hasn't your analytical mind
told you yet that the more a woman loves a man, the harder he's got
to work to find it out and--and clinch the bargain?"
"I suppose you are right," he said, gloomily. "But if I were a
woman, and knew I was killing a man by keeping myself in hiding, I'd
come out and show myself at any cost, especially if I loved him."
"Now you are dealing in imagination, Harley," I said; "and that never
was your strong point."
Nevertheless, he was right on one point. The hopelessness of his
quest was killing Harley--not physically exactly, but emotionally, as
it were. It was taking all the heart out of him, and his present
state of mind was far more deplorable than when he was struggling
with the book, and constantly growing worse. He tried every device
to find her--the Willards were conjured up, and knew nothing; Mrs.
Corwin and the twins were brought back from Europe, and refused to
yield up the secret; all the powers of a realistic pen were brought
to bear upon her, and yet she refused utterly to materialize.
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