If Bonbright's handling of the Hammil casualty created a good impression among the men, his stand against the unions more than counterbalanced it. He was able to get no nearer to the men. Perhaps, as individuals became acquainted with him, there was less open hostility manifested, but there remained suspicion, resentment, which Bonbright was unable to convert into friendship and co-operation.

The professor of sociology peered frequently at Bonbright through his thick spectacles with keen interest. He found as much enjoyment in studying his employer as he did in working over his employer's plan. Frequently he discussed Bonbright with Mershon.

"He's a strange young man," he said, "an instructive psychological study. Indeed he is. One cannot catalogue him. He is made up of opposites. Look you, Mershon, at his eagerness to better the conditions of his men—that's why I'm abandoning classes of boys who ought to be interested in what I teach them, but aren't—and then place beside it his antagonism to unionism…."

Mershon was interested at that instant more in the practical aspects of the situation. "The unions are snapping at our heels. Bricklayers, masons, structural steel, the whole lot. I've been palavering with them—but I'm about to the end of my rope. We've needed men and we've got a big sprinkling of union men. Wages have attracted them. I'm afraid we've got too many, so many the unions feel cocky. They think they're strong enough to take a hand and try to force recognition on us…. He won't have it." Mershon shrugged his shoulders. "I've got to the end of my rope. Yesterday I told him the responsibility was one I didn't hanker for, and put it up to him. He's going to meet with the labor fellows to-day…. And we can look for fireworks."

"If I were labor," said the professor, "I think I should leave that young man alone—until I saw where he headed. They're going to get more out of him than organization could compel or even hope for. If they prod him too hard they may upset things. He's fine capacity for stubbornness."

The labor representatives were on their way to the office. When they arrived they asked first for Mershon, who received them and notified Bonbright.

"Show them in," he said. "We may as well have it over." There were four of the men whom Mershon led through the door into Bonbright's office, but Bonbright saw but one of them-Dulac!

The young man half rose from his chair, then sat down with his eyes fixed upon the man into whose hands, he believed, his wife had given herself. It was curious that he felt little resentment toward Dulac, and none of that murderous rage which some men might have felt….

"Mr. Dulac," he said, "I want to—talk with you. Will you ask these—other gentlemen if they will step outside for—a few moments…. I have a personal matter to discuss with—Mr. Dulac."

Dulac was not at his ease. He had come in something like a spirit of bravado to face Bonbright, and this turn to the event nonplused him. However, if he would save his face he must rise to the situation.

"Just a minute, boys," he said to his companions, and with Mershon they filed into the next room.

"Dulac," said Bonbright, in a voice that was low but steady, "is she well and—happy?"

"Eh?…" Dulac was startled indeed.

"I haven't kept you to—quarrel," said Bonbright. "I hoped she would—wait the year before she went—to you, but it was hers to choose. … Now that she has chosen—I want to know if it has—made her happy. I want her to be happy, Dulac."

Dulac came a step nearer the desk. Something in Bonbright's voice and manner compelled, if not his sympathy, at least something which resembled respect.

"Do you mean you don't know where Ruth is?" he asked.

"No."

"You thought she was with me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Foote, she isn't with me…. I wish to God she was. I've seen her only once since—that evening. It was by accident, on the street. … I tried to see her. I found the place empty, and nobody knew where she'd gone. Even her mother didn't know. I thought you had sent her away."

"Dulac," said Bonbright, leaning forward as though drawn by spasmodic contraction of tense muscles, "is this true?"

For once Dulac did not become theatrical, did not pose, did not reply to this doubt, as became labor flouting capital. Perhaps it was because the matter lay as close to his stormy heart as it did to Bonbright's. "Yes," he said.

"Then where…"

"I don't—know."

"She's out there alone," said Bonbright, dully. "She's been out there alone—all these months. She's so little…. What made her go away?… Something has happened to her…."

"Haven't you had any word—anything?" Dulac was becoming frightened himself.

"Nothing—nothing."

Bonbright leaped to his feet and took two steps forward and two back. "I've got to know," he said. "She must be found…. Anything could have happened…."

"It's up to us to find her," said Dulac, unconsciously, intuitively coupling himself with Bonbright. They were comrades in this thing. The anxiety was equally theirs.

"Yes…. Yes."

"She wasn't the kind of a girl to—"

"No," said Bonbright, quickly, as if afraid to hear Dulac say the words, "she wouldn't do THAT…. Maybe she's just hiding away—or hurt—or sick. I've got to know."

"Call back the boys…. Let's get this conference over so we can get at it."

Bonbright nodded, and Dulac stepped to the door. The men re-entered.

"Now, gentlemen," said Bonbright.

"We just came to put the question to you squarely, Mr. Foote. We represent all the trades working on the new buildings. Are you going to recognize the unions?"

"No," said Bonbright.

"More than half the men on the job are union."

"They're welcome to stay," said Bonbright.

"Well, they won't stay," said the spokesman. "We've fiddled along with this thing, and the boys are mighty impatient. This is our last word, Mr. Foote. Recognize the unions or we'll call off our men."

Bonbright stood up. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," said he.

With angry faces they tramped out, all but Dulac, who stopped in the door. "I'm going to look for her," he said.

"If you find anything—hear anything—"

Dulac nodded. "I'll let you know," he said.

"I'll be—searching, too," said Bonbright. Mershon came in. "Here's a letter—" he began.

Bonbright shook his head. "Attend to it—whatever it is. I'm going out.
I don't know when I shall be back…. You have full authority. …"

He all but rushed from the room, and Mershon stared after him in amazement. Bonbright did not know where he was going, what he was going to do. There was no plan, but his need was action. He must be doing something, searching…. But as he got into his machine he recognized the futility of aimlessness. There was a way of going about such things…. He must be calm. He must enlist aid.

Suddenly he thought of Hilda Lightener. He had not seen her for weeks.
She had been close to Ruth; perhaps she knew something. He drove to the
Lightener residence and asked for her. Hilda was at home.

"She's LOST," said Bonbright, as Hilda came into the room.

"What? Who are you talking about?"

"'Ruth…. She's not with Dulac. He doesn't know where she is; she was never with him."

"Did you think she was?" Hilda said, accusingly. "You—you're so—Oh, the pair of you!"

"Do you know where she is?"

"I haven't seen nor heard of her since the day—your father died."

"Something must have happened…. She wouldn't have gone away like that—without telling anybody, even her mother…."

"She would," said Hilda. "She—she was hurt. She couldn't bear to stay. She didn't tell me that, but I know…. And it's your fault for—for being blind."

"I don't understand."

"She loved you," said Hilda, simply. "No…. She told me. She never—loved—me. It was him. She married me to—"

"I know what she married you for. I know all about it…. And she thought she loved him. She found out she didn't. But I knew it for a long time," Hilda said, womanlike, unable to resist the temptation to boast of her intuition. "It all came to her that day—and she was going to tell you…. She was going to do that—going to go to you and tell you and ask you to take her back…. She said she'd make you believe her…."

"No," said Bonbright, "you're—mistaken, Hilda. She was my wife…. I know how she felt. She couldn't bear to have me pass close to her. …"

"It IS true," Hilda said. "She was going to you…. And then I came and told her your father was dead…. That made it all impossible, don't you see?… Because you knew why she had married you, and you would believe she came back to you because—you owned the mills and employed all those men…. That's what you WOULD have believed, too. …"

"Yes," said Bonbright.

"And then—it was more than she could bear. To know she loved you and had loved you a long time—and that you loved her. You do, don't you?"

"I can't—help it."

"So that made it worse than anything that had gone before—and she went away. She didn't tell even me, but I ought to have known…."

"And you haven't even a trace?"

"Bonbright, if you find her—what?"

"I don't know…. I've just got to find her. I've got to know what's happened…."

"Are you going to tell her you love her—and take her back?"

"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 pass 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.