even found a queer sort of interest in examining his
stock of ties and other garments. The memory of Elizabeth Dalstan's words
was still in his brain. They had become the text of his life. This, he
told himself, was his birthday. He even accepted without a tremor a
letter and telegram which the steward brought him.

"These were in the rack for you, sir," he said. "I meant to bring them
down last night but we had a busy start off."

Philip took them up on deck to read. He tore open the telegram first and
permitted himself a little start when he saw the signature. It was sent
off from Detton Magna,--

"Why did you not come as promised? What am I to do? BEATRICE."

The envelope of the letter he opened with a little more compunction. It
was written on the printed notepaper of the Douglas Romilly Shoe Company,
and was of no great length,--

"Dear Mr. Romilly,

"I understood that you would return to the factory this evening for a few
minutes, before taking the train to Liverpool. There were one or two
matters upon which I should like some further information, but as time is
short I am writing to you at the Waldorf Hotel at New York.

"I see that the acceptances due next 4th are unusually heavy, but I think
I understood you to say that you had spoken to Mr. Henshaw at the bank
concerning these, and in any case I presume there would be no difficulty.

"Wishing you every success on the other side, and a safe return,

"I am,

"Your obedient servant,

"J.L. POTTS."

"There is not the slightest doubt," Philip said to himself, as he tore
both communications into pieces and watched them flutter away downwards,
"that I am on my way to New York. If only one knew what had become of
that poor, half-starved art master!"

He went down to breakfast and afterwards strolled aimlessly about the
deck. His sense of enjoyment was so extraordinarily keen that he found it
hard to settle down to any of the usual light occupations of idle
travellers. He was content to stand by the rail and gaze across the sea,
a new wonder to him; or to lie about in his steamer chair and listen,
with half-closed eyes, to the hissing of the spray and the faint music of
the wind. His mind turned by chance to one of those stories of which he
had spoken. A sudden new vigour of thought seemed to rend it inside out
almost in those first few seconds. He thought of the garret in which it
had been written, the wretched surroundings, the odoriferous food, the