satisfied himself at last, however. The disappearance of a half-starved
art teacher had not yet blazoned out to a sympathetic world. It was so
much to the good.... There was a touch upon his shoulder, and he felt a
chill of horror. When he turned around, it was the steward who had
conducted him below, holding out a telegram.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "Telegram just arrived for you."

He passed on almost at once, in search of some one else. Philip stood for
several moments perfectly still. He looked at the inscription--_Douglas
Romilly_--set his teeth and tore open the envelope:

Understood you were returning to factory before leaving. Am posting a few
final particulars to Waldorf Hotel, New York. Staff joins me in wishing
you bon voyage.

Philip felt his heart cease its pounding, felt an immense sense of
relief. It was a wonderful thing, this message. It cleared up one point
on which he had been anxious and unsettled. It was taken for granted at
the Works, then, that he had come straight to Liverpool. He walked up and
down the deck on the side remote from the dock, driving this into his
mind.

Everything was wonderfully simplified. If only he could get across, once
reach New York! Meanwhile, he looked at his watch again and discovered
that it wanted but ten minutes to three. He made his way back down to his
stateroom, which was already filled with his luggage. He shook out an
ulster from a bundle of wraps, and selected a tweed cap. Already there
was a faint touch of the sea in the river breeze, and he was impatient
for the immeasurable open spaces, the salt wind, the rise and fall of the