Everet and Braine are walking down the road from the station. Everet is talking earnestly. Braine is listening eagerly. Disappointment is written on his face.

"You have found no clew?"

"None." Everet speaks hopelessly.

"Don't speak in that tone. A woman like Helen cannot drop out of existence without leaving some trace. What was the last you discovered?"

"I found a place where she had lived—a comfortable flat. She had lived there—" He hesitates.

Braine says quietly:

"Say it."

"With a man called McPhelan—you know who he is, I presume."

"Good God!"

Braine stops in the road and looks helplessly into Everet's face. He moans:

"Don't say that, Everet! Don't say that! Not Helen! It was not she. It was some other."

"And after all, dear Braine, what is the difference? A Sixth Ward politician, or a member of the cabinet."

He has thrown his arm across Braine's shoulders. His tone is one of tenderest sympathy, but there is a certain sternness in it.

Braine's strong body trembles like a weak child's. He says, hoarsely:

"I must go and find her. I must, Everet."

"No, no. No one could do more than I can in such a matter. I will look until I find her, or know that she is dead. I will obey your least direction, your slightest wish in this, but grant what I ask of you. Don't go to find her. Think, Braine! Think what it would be to learn such things from strangers; think what it would be to learn the details of so pitiful a life from those who cared nothing for your grief. It is right you should know them—but hear them from me. I love you. I loved Helen—the Helen you have known. You surely can bear these things better from me."

"Yes, yes. God bless you, Everet. You're the truest friend a man ever had. But promise me, promise me you will leave no stone unturned?"

"I promise."