great ship. Then, as he stood on the threshold of his cabin, he heard
voices.

"Down in number 110, eh?"

"Yes, sir," he heard his steward's voice reply. "Mr. Romilly has just
gone down. You've only a minute, sir, before the last call for
passengers."

"That's all right," the voice which had spoken to him over the telephone
that morning replied. "I'd just like to shake hands with him and wish him
bon voyage."

Philip's teeth came together in a little fury of anger. It was maddening,
this, to be trapped when only a few minutes remained between him and
safety! His brain worked swiftly. He took his chance of finding the next
stateroom empty, as it happened to be, and stepped quickly inside. He
kept his back to the door until the footsteps had passed. He heard the
knock at his stateroom, stepped back into the corridor, and passed along
a little gangway to the other side of the ship. He hurried up the stairs
and into the smoking-room. The bugle was sounding now, and hoarse voices
were shouting:

"Every one for the shore! Last call for the shore!"

"Give me a brandy and soda," he begged the steward, who was just opening
the bar.

The man glanced at the clock and obeyed. Philip swallowed half of it at a
gulp, then sat down with the tumbler in his hand. All of a sudden