"With you out of the way, he could come back without fear."
"Drummond's not that sort. He's weak, perhaps, but no criminal."
"A criminal is the creature of a warped judgment. There'd be no criminals if every one were able to attain his desires within the law. Misfortunes breed weird maggots in a man's brain. Drummond's dragging out a wretched existence in a world of false perspectives; he's not to be blamed if he presently begins to see things as they are not."
Ember permitted another pause to lengthen, unbroken by Whitaker.
"Shall I try to find him for you?" he asked quietly, in the end.
"No," Whitaker decided. "No. Let him alone--poor devil!"
Ember disclaimed further responsibility with a movement of his shoulders.
"But my wife? Could you find her as readily?"
"Possibly," the detective admitted cautiously. "But I don't mean to."
"But principally because she doesn't want me to. Otherwise she'd let you know where to look for her."
These fragments of dialogue are from a conversation that took place in the month of June, nearly seven weeks after the farewell performance at the Theatre Max. Interim, Whitaker had quietly resumed his place in the life of the town, regaining old friendships, renewing old associations. Save for the fact that he pursued no gainful occupation, all with him was much as it had been: as if the intervening six years of exile had been blotted out, or had never been. The mild excitement occasioned by his reappearance had already subsided; he was again an accepted and substantial factor in the society of his kind.
He had abandoned all thought of returning to New Guinea, entertained, indeed, no inclination whatever to do so. The life he now led was more or less normal to him. Yet he was sensible of a growing restlessness. He had nothing to busy himself with: this was the unguessed secret of his unsettled temper. And the approach of hot weather was narrowing the circle of his acquaintances. People were leaving town daily, for Europe, for the seashore, for the mountains.
He began to receive invitations for week-ends and longer visits out of town. A few of the former he accepted--always, however, returning to New York with a sense of necessity strong upon his spirit. Something held him there, some influence elusive of analysis. He was discontented, but felt that he could not find content elsewhere.