“Mr. Romilly speaking,” he announced.  “Will you kindly tell Mr. Gayes, if he calls to see me, that I have been detained in the city, and shall not be back.”

The man took down the message.  Philip strolled out once more into the streets, wandering aimlessly about for an hour or more.  By this time it was nearly one o’clock, and, selecting a restaurant, he entered and ordered luncheon.  Once more it came over him, as he looked around the place, that he had, after all, only a very imperfect hold upon his own identity.  It seemed impossible that he, Philip Romilly, should be there, ordering precisely what appealed to him most, without thought or care of the cost.  He ate and drank slowly and with discrimination, and when he left the place he felt stronger.  He sought out a first-class tobacconist’s, bought some cigarettes, and enquired his way to the dock.  At a few minutes after two, he passed up the gangway and boarded the great steamer.  One of the little army of linen-coated stewards enquired the number of his room and conducted him below.

“Anything I can do for you, sir, before your luggage comes on?” the man asked civilly.

Philip shook his head and wandered up on deck again, where there were already a fair number of passengers in evidence.  He leaned over the side, watching the constant stream of porters bearing supplies, and the steerage passengers passing into the forepart of the ship.  With every moment his impatience grew.  He looked at his watch sometimes half a dozen times in ten minutes, changed his position continually, started violently whenever he heard an unexpected footstep behind him.  Finally he broke a promise he had made to himself.  He bought newspapers, took them into a sheltered corner, and tore them open.  Column by column he searched them through feverishly, running his finger down one side and up the next.  It seemed impossible to find nowhere the heading he dreaded to see, to realize that they were entirely empty of any exciting incident.  He 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.