“And what are you doing here?” Mr. Seven Sachs greeted Edward Henry with geniality.

Edward Henry lowered his voice.

“I’m throwing good money after bad,” said he.

The friendly grip of Mr. Seven Sachs’s hand did him good, reassured him, and gave him courage.  He was utterly tired of the voyage, and also of the poetical society of Carlo Trent, whose passage had cost him thirty pounds, considerable boredom, and some sick-nursing during the final days and nights.  A dramatic poet with an appetite was a full dose for Edward Henry; but a dramatic poet who lay on his back and moaned for naught but soda-water and dry land amounted to more than Edward Henry could conveniently swallow.

He directed Mr. Sachs’s attention to the anguished and debile organism which had once been Carlo Trent, and Mr. Sachs was so sympathetic that Carlo Trent began to adore him, and Edward Henry to be somewhat disturbed in his previous estimate of Mr. Sachs’s common sense.  But at a favourable moment Mr. Sachs breathed humorously into Edward Henry’s ear the question: 

“What have you brought him out for?”

“I’ve brought him out to lose him.”

As they pushed through the bustle of the enormous ship, and descended from the dizzy eminence of her boat-deck by lifts and ladders down to the level of the windy, sun-steeped rock of New York, Edward Henry said: 

“Now, I want you to understand, Mr. Sachs, that I haven’t a minute to spare.  I’ve just looked in for lunch.”

“Going on to Chicago?”

“She isn’t at Chicago, is she?” demanded Edward Henry, aghast.  “I thought she’d reached New York!”

“Who?”

“Isabel Joy.”

“Oh!  Isabel’s in New York, sure enough.  She’s right here.  They say she’ll have to catch the Lithuania if she’s going to get away with it.”

“Get away with what?”

“Well—­the goods.”

The precious word reminded Edward Henry of an evening at Wilkins’s and raised his spirits even higher.  It was a word he loved.

“And I’ve got to catch the Lithuania, too!” said he.  “But Trent doesn’t know!...  And let me tell you she’s going to do the quickest turn-round that any ship ever did.  The purser assured me she’ll leave at noon to-morrow unless the world comes to an end in the meantime.  Now what about a hotel?”

“You’ll stay with me—­naturally.”

“But—­” Edward Henry protested.

“Oh, yes, you will.  I shall be delighted.”

“But I must look after Trent.”

“He’ll stay with me too—­naturally.  I live at the Stuyvesant Hotel, you know, on Fifth.  I’ve a pretty private suite there.  I shall arrange a little supper for to-night.  My automobile is here.”

“Is it possible that I once saved your life and have forgotten all about it?” Edward Henry exclaimed.  “Or do you treat everybody like this?”

“We like to look after our friends,” said Mr. Sachs, simply.