with him. They felt like that, too.

In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little
miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thought
should have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of
the essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney:
but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an
absolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him more
powerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it
pallidly, like Macbeth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively
young cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils.
His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like one
of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer had
spoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal, he
bounded from his seat and fled for the deck.

There was a rustle of millinery at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard rose
and followed him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so
pale and piteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and
now, in his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface
everything that was best and most compassionate in her nature.
Thrusting aside a steward who happened to be between her and the door,
she raced in pursuit.

Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin's dash for the open with a
consternation so complete that his sense seemed to have left him. A
general, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have felt
something akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, the
imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily be
carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of the