“I didn’t know what she had done until her letter came. I was frantic.” Her lips

trembled. Her hands mashed the dark handbag in her lap. “I was too afraid she

had done something like this to go to the police, and the fear that something

had happened to her kept urging me to go. There wasn’t anyone I could go to for

advice. I didn’t know what to do. What could I do?”

 

“Nothing, of course,” Spade said, “but then her letter came?”

 

“Yes, and I sent her a telegram asking her to come home. I sent it to General

Delivery here. That was the only address she gave me. I waited a whole week, but

no answer came, not another word from her. And Mama and Papa’s return was

drawing nearer and nearer. So I came to San Francisco to get her. I wrote her I

was coming. I shouldn’t have done that, should I?”

 

“Maybe not. It’s not always easy to know what to do. You haven’t found her?”

 

“No, I haven’t. I wrote her that I would go to the St. Mark, and I begged her to

come and let me talk to her even if she didn’t intend to go home with me. But

she didn’t come. I waited three days, and she didn’t come, didn’t even send me a

message of any sort.”

 

Spade nodded his blond satan’s head, frowned sympathetically, and tightened his

lips together.