"Oh, I’ve been studying them all my life," he laughed. "Never having had one of my own, I’ve been watching and thinking about the whole sex all over the earth. We’ll find her. Have you communicated with the police?" At the word "police," my heart turned leaden again. "The—p-police!" I stammered aghast. "Invoke the publicity that means?—Horrible!" A shudder ran down my back. "Right again!" cried Dibdin, nudging me. "Young man, you have an appreciation! Quite useless—the police. But you still—have a suspicion of Pendleton, haven’t you?" I found myself wishing that even the best of men weren’t so ready to imagine themselves amateur detectives. The very core of my heart of hearts, Alicia, had disappeared, and I wanted swift concrete help, not speculative questions. I admitted that I had a lingering suspicion of Pendleton. "Then, this is what we do," Dibdin rubbed his forehead as over a problem in chess. "We see a private detective agency here and acquaint them with the facts. Have them pick up Pendleton on the way—he hasn’t reached Chicago yet, you know—and see if he’s traveling alone. If he is, let him go on his way. If not—then, a description of the girl—you understand—" A livid fury possessed me suddenly as I saw the all too vivid picture that Dibdin had evoked and was now trying to believe. "No, no!" I cried. "I am going myself. I dare not—I cannot trust anybody else to do this. You don’t know—you can’t understand—" "I know only too damned well," growled Dibdin staring at me quizzically. "But I am trying to show you sense—difficult, I admit, to one in your condition. However, I must try again," he went on with the patience of resignation. "You are only one man—don’t you see? A detective agency is an organization of many men in different places who can concentrate on the same job simultaneously. At this minute they would know on which train he might be traveling and some one or several could already be watching for his arrival. Suppose they miss him. There are many hotels in Chicago—there are many trains leaving for the coast—don’t you see?" "Yes," I breathed brokenly. "Then it’s useless." "Far from it," he laughed. "Come with me." Less than an hour later we were at the Mahoney Detective Agency and a suave young Irishman was listening without emotion or eagerness to my story supplemented by Dibdin’s interpolations. He seemed to care little for what concerned me most, but he was keen for personal details of Pendleton’s appearance, height, build, clothes, lettering on his luggage and so on. When it came to giving a detailed description of Alicia, my confusion was so pitiful that even the young detective glanced at me only once and then, like the gentleman he was, looked sedulously down upon the paper before him. "Sixteen—in her seventeenth year!" he murmured in astonishment. "But she is an unusual girl—well grown for her age," I caught him up. "I see," he murmured gravely. "What’s the color of her hair?"