"Nothing at all derogatory to your wife, I assure you; I am more than ever convinced that a frank talk would have cleared up your little misunderstanding long ago." "Really?" "Yes, and I'll tell you the whole story, only you must eat." He fell to with feverish haste, his hollow eyes fixed on my face. "Your wife's visitor was not a friend of hers, and Merritt (here I strained a point) is sure she has not met him for years. He used to be one of her admirers till she refused to see him, and then he left Chicago and has not been seen there since; but he has a bad record in several other cities. The night he was killed he came to your apartment drunk, and the detective thinks he probably tried to get money from your wife. It seems to me natural that she should have concealed his visit. He was not a guest to be proud of, and, besides, she may have been afraid of rousing your jealousy, for you are pretty jealous, you know." "What a crazy fool I have been; I deserve to lose her. But," he inquired, with renewed suspicion, "why has she run away?" "Because she found out that the fact that the dead man had gone to the Rosemere to see her had become known to the police, for when I saw her yesterday afternoon I blurted out that the detective did not believe in Argot's guilt, but was on the track of some female. She at once jumped to the conclusion that he suspected her, and decided to fly before she could be apprehended, and so save her life and your honour." "Well, Doctor," he cried, pushing his plate away, "I feel better. Your news is such a relief. I must now be off again. I can't rest. Oh, how I wish I might be the one to find my little girl!" "I do hope you will; only don't be disappointed if you are not immediately successful; New York is a big place, remember. But till you do find your wife I wish that instead of going back to your apartment you would stay here with me; we are both alone, and would be company for each other." "Thank you; if I don't find her, I'll accept your offer. You're awfully kind, Doctor." The poor fellow turned up again, footsore and weary, at about twelve that night. He was too exhausted by that time to suffer much, but I gave him a sedative so as to make sure of his having a good sleep. CHAPTER XVII ONE WOMAN EXONERATED Atkins and I were still at breakfast when, to my surprise, the detective was announced. Atkins started to his feet. "Any news of my wife?" he inquired, anxiously. "None, I regret to say," answered Merritt. I was still very much annoyed with him for having been so indiscreet and tactless in his interview with May Derwent, but he looked so dejected that my anger melted a little. Atkins left us almost immediately, and started on his weary search. When he was gone, I motioned Merritt to take his place. "Have you had any breakfast?"