They sifted the manuscripts, the books, the magazines, burrowed into the drawers; and sometimes their hands touched, but they neither noticed nor felt the contact.

Warrington even dropped to his knees and hunted under the desk, all the while "Jack Bennington, Jack Bennington!" drumming in his ears.

The search was useless.

The gloves were nowhere to be found.

He stood up irresolute, dismayed and anxious, keenly alive to her misery and to the inferences his best friend might draw.