Hope dies hard; and there was always the chance that the child might make her way home again, or that I might hear of her or from her in some roundabout way; for at least her body had not been found. But after two months of utterly unsuccessful search, almost continuous by day and night, I was pretty desperate now, standing up there on the roof of the building in New York in which I had taken an apartment. Everything else had been dropped and I had moved to New York. I had been in queer places and seen queer sights during those eight weeks. I had pierced the outer, commonplace integument of a great city—the shifting scene of blank, reserved humanity that meets the casual eye—and had been caught up and swept nearly off my feet once or twice in the seething welter of passion and crime that swells and ebbs beneath the city’s impassive exterior. But of the slip of a girl I sought and now almost dreaded to find I could learn—nothing. Stretching away below me as I watched, the city crouched purring, like some great animal motionless and watchful. I hated it actively for what it had done to me, longing to tear out its secret by violence, if need be. But after a while sanity slowly returned and the momentary madness faded. I can only say in excuse that the gnawing anxiety of those two months must have somewhat undermined a pretty normal point of view. But with returning sanity came a slow resolve. Up to now I had been seeking blindly, with no plan—no definite aim, no thought of the future. From now on I vowed that my life should be given up to the search; that nothing should interfere with it; that only death or success should put an end to it. The resolve brought me a curious sense of peace. That much I could do—even though it were all I could do. But that much should be done. With the thought I turned away from the parapet to go to my rooms below and try to lay out some sort of a campaign for the future. As I turned a touch fell upon my arm and I found Larry standing beside me. In the dim light from the open doorway that led to the roof I could detect the half-veiled pity in his eyes. I had acquired Larry a couple of weeks before, or rather had had him more or less thrust upon me, and had not regretted it. Early in the search I bought a small light car and scoured the city night after night in it, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Margaret. One night I had been driving slowly along the Bowery. It was very late and the long, wide, cobbled street under the L structure was deserted. But as I came to a corner, Larry darted out of a side street, yanked open the rear door of the car and dropped into the obscurity of the tonneau behind me, with “For God’s sake, d-r-r-rive on, sor. It’s half a dozen of them gangsters is after me!”