A moment later he was shot back to the dock and to the country from which at that moment, in deck cabin A4, he was supposed to be drawing steadily away.

Dodging the electric lights, on foot he made his way to his lodging-house.  The night was warm and moist, and, seated on the stoop, stripped to shirt and trousers, was his landlord.

He greeted Jimmie affably.

“Evening, Mr. Hull,” he said.  “Hope this heat won’t keep you awake.”

Jimmie thanked him and passed hurriedly.

“Mr. Hull!”

The landlord had said it.

Somewhere out at sea, between Fire Island and Scotland Lightship, the waves were worrying with what once had been Jimmie Blagwin, and in a hall bedroom on Twenty-third Street Henry Hull, with frightened eyes, sat staring across the wharves, across the river, thinking of a farmhouse on Long Island.

His last week on earth had been more of a strain on Jimmie than he appreciated; and the night the Ceramic sailed he slept the drugged sleep of complete nervous exhaustion.  Late the next morning, while he still slept, a passenger on the Ceramic stumbled upon the fact of his disappearance.  The man knew Jimmie; had greeted him the night before when he came on board, and was seeking him that he might subscribe to a pool on the run.  When to his attack on Jimmie’s door there was no reply, he peered through the air-port, saw on the pillow, where Jimmie’s head should have been, two letters, and reported to the purser.  Already the ship was three hundred miles from where Jimmie had announced he would drown himself; a search showed he was not on board, and the evidence of a smoking-room steward, who testified that at one o’clock he had left Mr. Blagwin alone on deck, gazing “mournful-like” at Fire Island, seemed to prove Jimmie had carried out his threat.  When later the same passenger the steward had mistaken for Jimmie appeared in the smoking-room and ordered a drink from him, the steward was rattled.  But as the person who had last seen Jimmie Blagwin alive he had gained melancholy interest, and, as his oft-told tale was bringing him many shillings, he did not correct it.  Accordingly, from Cape Sable the news of Jimmie’s suicide was reported.  That afternoon it appeared in all the late editions of the evening papers.

Pleading fever, Jimmie explained to his landlord that for him to venture out by day was most dangerous, and sent the landlord after the newspapers.  The feelings with which he read them were mixed.  He was proud of the complete success of his plot, but the inevitableness of it terrified him.  The success was too complete.  He had left himself no loophole.  He had locked the door on himself and thrown the key out of the window.  Now, that she was lost to him forever, he found, if that were possible, he loved his wife more devotedly than before.  He felt that to live in the same world with Jeanne and never speak to her, never even look at her, could