He was on the point of rushing up the station stairway, when he espied a cab at the far corner.  A replica of a London cab, something which smacked of home; he could have hugged for sheer joy the bleary-eyed cabby who touched his rusty high hat.

“Free?”

“Free ‘s th’ air, bo.  Where to?”

“Pier 60, White Star Line.  How much?”—­quite his old-time self again.

“Two dollars,”—­promptly.

“All right.  And hurry!” Thomas climbed in.  He was safe.

As the crow flies it was less than a ten-minutes’ jog from that corner to Pier 60.  Thomas had not gone far; he had merely covered a good deal of ground.  Cabby drove about for three-quarters of an hour and then drew up before the pier.

Back to his cabin once more, weak as a swimmer who had breasted a strong tide.  He opened his trunk and rammed the chamois-bag into the toe of one of his patent-leather boots.  In the daytime he would wear it about his neck, but each night back into the shoe it must go.  He flung himself on the bunk, not to sleep, but to think and wonder.

Meantime there was great excitement in the dive.  The waiter was rocking his body, wailing and holding his jaw.  His companion was sitting on the floor.  In the wine-room two policemen and a thick-set, black-mustached man in a derby hat were asking questions.

“Robbed!” moaned Jameson.

The man in the derby hat shook him roughly.  “Robbed o’ what, y’ soak?”

“Robbed!”

“Mike,” said the man in the derby, “put th’ darbies on th’ Sneak.  We’ll get something for our trouble, anyhow.  An’ tell that waiter t’ put th’ brakes on his yawp.  Bring him in here.  Now, you, what’s happened?”

“Why, the gink in uniform comes in . . .”

The bartender interrupted.  “A gink dressed like a ship-steward comes in an’ orders ale.  Drinks five glasses.  Goes out int’ th’ wine-room ‘cross th’ hall an’ orders a bottle o’ gin.  An’ next I hears Johnny howlin’ murder.  Frame-up, Mr. Haggerty.  Nothin’ t’ do with it, hones’ t’ Gawd!  Th’ boss ain’t here.”

Jameson lurched toward the bartender.  “Young lookin’?  Red cheeks?  ’Old himself like a sojer?”

“That’s ’im,” agreed the bartender.

“What were y’ robbed of?” demanded Haggerty.

Jameson looked into a pair of chilling blue eyes.  His own wavered drunkenly.  “Money.”

“Y’ lie!  What was it?” Haggerty seized Jameson by the collar and swung him about.  “Hurry up!”

“I tell you, my money.  Paid off t’dy.  ’E knew it.  Sly.”  Jameson had become almost sober.  Out of the muddle one thing loomed clearly:  he could not be revenged upon his cabin-mate without getting himself into deep trouble.  Money; he’d stick to that.

“Who is he?”

“Name’s Webb; firs’-class steward on th’ Celtic.  Damn ’im!”

“Lock this fool up till morning,” said Haggerty.  “I’ll find out what he’s been robbed of.”