How long and far I walked I cannot tell; but on Fifth Avenue, under a light, I passed a cab containing a solitary occupant, who called to me, and I recognized the voice and face of my millionaire friend.  He stopped the cab and asked:  “What on earth are you doing strolling in this part of the town?” For answer I got into the cab and related to him all that had happened.  He reassured me by saying that no charge of any kind could be brought against me; then added:  “But of course you don’t want to be mixed up in such an affair.”  He directed the driver to turn around and go into the park, and then went on to say:  “I decided last night that I’d go to Europe tomorrow.  I think I’ll take you along instead of Walter.”  Walter was his valet.  It was settled that I should go to his apartments for the rest of the night and sail with him in the morning.

We drove around through the park, exchanging only an occasional word.  The cool air somewhat calmed my nerves and I lay back and closed my eyes; but still I could see that beautiful white throat with the ugly wound.  The jet of blood pulsing from it had placed an indelible red stain on my memory.

IX

I did not feel at ease until the ship was well out of New York harbor; and, notwithstanding the repeated reassurances of my millionaire friend and my own knowledge of the facts in the case, I somehow could not rid myself of the sentiment that I was, in a great degree, responsible for the “widow’s” tragic end.  We had brought most of the morning papers aboard with us, but my great fear of seeing my name in connection with the killing would not permit me to read the accounts, although, in one of the papers, I did look at the picture of the victim, which did not in the least resemble her.  This morbid state of mind, together with sea-sickness, kept me miserable for three or four days.  At the end of that time my spirits began to revive, and I took an interest in the ship, my fellow passengers, and the voyage in general.  On the second or third day out we passed several spouting whales, but I could not arouse myself to make the effort to go to the other side of the ship to see them.  A little later we ran in close proximity to a large iceberg.  I was curious enough to get up and look at it, and I was fully repaid for my pains.  The sun was shining full upon it, and it glistened like a mammoth diamond, cut with a million facets.  As we passed, it constantly changed its shape; at each different angle of vision it assumed new and astonishing forms of beauty.  I watched it through a pair of glasses, seeking to verify my early conception of an iceberg—­in the geographies of my grammar school days the pictures of icebergs always included a stranded polar bear, standing desolately upon one of the snowy crags.  I looked for the bear, but if he was there, he refused to put himself on exhibition.