At the Fourteenth Street hotel Jimmie dismissed the taxi-cab and asked for a room adjoining an imaginary Senator Gates.  When the clerk told him Senator Gates was not at that hotel, Jimmie excitedly demanded to be led to the telephone.  He telephoned the office of the steamship line:  and, in the name of Henry Hull, secured a cabin.  Then he explained to the clerk that over the telephone he had learned that his friend, Senator Gates, was at another hotel.  He regretted that he must follow him.  Another taxi was called, and Jimmie drove to an inconspicuous and old-fashioned hotel on the lower East Side, patronized exclusively by gunmen.  There, in not finding Senator Gates, he was again disappointed, and now having broken the link that connected him with the suspicious landlord, he drove back to within a block of his original starting-point and went on board the ship.  Not until she was off Sandy Hook did he leave his cabin.

It was July, and passengers to the tropics were few; and when Jimmie ventured on deck he found most of them gathered at the port rail.  They were gazing intently over the ship’s side.  Thinking the pilot might be leaving, Jimmie joined them.  A young man in a yachting-cap was pointing north and speaking in the voice of a conductor of a “seeing New York” car.

“Just between that lighthouse and the bow of this ship,” he exclaimed, “is where yesterday James Blagwin jumped overboard.  At any moment we may see the body!”

An excitable passenger cried aloud and pointed at some floating seaweed.

“I’ll bet that’s it now!” he shouted.

Jimmie exclaimed indignantly: 

“I’ll bet you ten dollars it isn’t!” he said.

In time the ship touched at Santiago, Kingston, and Colon, but, fearing recognition, Jimmie saw these places only from the deck.  He travelled too fast for newspapers to overtake him, and those that on the return passage met the ship, of his death gave no details.  So, except that his suicide had been accepted, Jimmie knew nothing.

Least of all did he know, or even guess, that his act of renunciation, intended to bring to Jeanne happiness, had nearly brought about her own end.  She believed Jimmie was dead, but not for a moment did she believe it was for fear of blindness he had killed himself.  She and Maddox had killed him.  Between them they had murdered the man who, now that he was gone, she found she loved devotedly.  To a shocked and frightened letter of condolence from Maddox she wrote one that forever ordered him out of her life.  Then she set about making a saint of Jimmie, and counting the days when in another world they would meet, and her years of remorse, penitence, and devotion would cause him to forgive her.  In their home she shut herself off from every one.  She made of it a shrine to Jimmie.  She kept his gloves on the hall table; on her writing-desk she placed flowers before his picture.  Preston, the butler, and the other servants