For once Dulac did not become theatrical, did not pose, did not reply to this doubt, as became labor flouting capital.  Perhaps it was because the matter lay as close to his stormy heart as it did to Bonbright’s.  “Yes,” he said.

“Then where...”

“I don’t—­know.”

“She’s out there alone,” said Bonbright, dully.  “She’s been out there alone—­all these months.  She’s so little. ...  What made her go away?...  Something has happened to her. ...”

“Haven’t you had any word—­anything?” Dulac was becoming frightened himself.

“Nothing—­nothing.”

Bonbright leaped to his feet and took two steps forward and two back.  “I’ve got to know,” he said.  “She must be found. ...  Anything could have happened. ...”

“It’s up to us to find her,” said Dulac, unconsciously, intuitively coupling himself with Bonbright.  They were comrades in this thing.  The anxiety was equally theirs.

“Yes. ...  Yes.”

“She wasn’t the kind of a girl to—­”

“No,” said Bonbright, quickly, as if afraid to hear Dulac say the words, “she wouldn’t do that. ...  Maybe she’s just hiding away—­or hurt—­or sick.  I’ve got to know.”

“Call back the boys. ...  Let’s get this conference over so we can get at it.”

Bonbright nodded, and Dulac stepped to the door.  The men re-entered.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Bonbright.

“We just came to put the question to you squarely, Mr. Foote.  We represent all the trades working on the new buildings.  Are you going to recognize the unions?”

“No,” said Bonbright.

“More than half the men on the job are union.”

“They’re welcome to stay,” said Bonbright.

“Well, they won’t stay,” said the spokesman.  “We’ve fiddled along with this thing, and the boys are mighty impatient.  This is our last word, Mr. Foote.  Recognize the unions or we’ll call off our men.”

Bonbright stood up.  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said he.

With angry faces they tramped out, all but Dulac, who stopped in the door.  “I’m going to look for her,” he said.

“If you find anything—­hear anything—­”

Dulac nodded.  “I’ll let you know,” he said.

“I’ll be—­searching, too,” said Bonbright.  Mershon came in.  “Here’s a letter—­” he began.

Bonbright shook his head.  “Attend to it—­whatever it is.  I’m going out.  I don’t know when I shall be back. ...  You have full authority. ...”

He all but rushed from the room, and Mershon stared after him in amazement.  Bonbright did not know where he was going, what he was going to do.  There was no plan, but his need was action.  He must be doing something, searching. ...  But as he got into his machine he recognized the futility of aimlessness.  There was a way of going about such things. ...  He must be calm.  He must enlist aid.

Suddenly he thought of Hilda Lightener.  He had not seen her for weeks.  She had been close to Ruth; perhaps she knew something.  He drove to the Lightener residence and asked for her.  Hilda was at home.