“Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there.”

I went back to the drawing room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain.

“Look here, old sport, you've got to get somebody for me. You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone.”

Some one started to ask me questions but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk — he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing — only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence staring down from the wall.