Daylight brought reason, however. Harmony had been too
rational, too sane for such an end.
McLean was Peter's great support in those terrible days. He was
young and hopeful. Also he had money. Peter could not afford to
grease the machinery of the police service; McLean could and did.
In Berlin Harmony could not have remained hidden for two days. In
Vienna, however, it was different. Returns were made to the
department, but irregularly. An American music student was
missing. There were thousands of American music students in the
city: one fell over them in the coffee-houses. McLean offered a
reward and followed up innumerable music students.
The alternating hope and despair was most trying. Peter became
old and haggard; the boy grew thin and white. But there was this
difference, that with Peter the strain was cumulative, hour on
hour, day on day. With McLean each night found him worn and
exhausted, but each following morning he went to work with
renewed strength and energy. Perhaps, after all, the iron had not
struck so deep into his soul. With Peter it was a life-and-death
matter.
Clinics and lectures had begun again, but he had no heart for
work. The little household went on methodically. Marie remained;
there had seemed nothing else to do. She cooked Peter's
food--what little he would eat; she nursed Jimmy while Peter was
out on the long search; and she kept the apartment neat. She was
never intrusive, never talkative.
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