“Hair, dark and curly; eyes, poppy; lips, full; nose, Roman or Hebraic, according to taste.  Do you see?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“But it didn’t work,” he concluded.  “I picked the wrong Jew.”

His face grew serious.  “Do you suppose that Smedburg person has wirelessed that banker?”

I told him I was afraid he had already sent the message.

“And what will Meyer do?” he asked.  “Will he drop it or make a fuss?  What sort is he?”

Briefly I described Adolph Meyer.  I explained him as the richest Hebrew in New York; given to charity, to philanthropy, to the betterment of his own race.

“Then maybe,” cried Talbot hopefully, “he won’t make a row, and my family won’t hear of it!”

He drew a quick breath of relief.  As though a burden had been lifted, his shoulders straightened.

And then suddenly, harshly, in open panic, he exclaimed aloud: 

“Look!” he whispered.  “There, at the end of the wharf—­the little Jew in furs!”

I followed the direction of his eyes.  Below us on the dock, protected by two obvious members of the strong-arm squad, the great banker, philanthropist, and Hebrew, Adolph Meyer, was waiting.

We were so close that I could read his face.  It was stern, set; the face of a man intent upon his duty, unrelenting.  Without question, of a bad business Mr. Smedburg had made the worst.  I turned to speak to Talbot and found him gone.

His silent slipping away filled me with alarm.  I fought against a growing fear.  How many minutes I searched for him I do not know.  It seemed many hours.  His cabin, where first I sought him, was empty and dismantled, and by that I was reminded that if for any desperate purpose Talbot were seeking to conceal himself there now were hundreds of other empty, dismantled cabins in which he might hide.  To my inquiries no one gave heed.  In the confusion of departure no one had observed him; no one was in a humor to seek him out; the passengers were pressing to the gangway, the stewards concerned only in counting their tips.  From deck to deck, down lane after lane of the great floating village, I raced blindly, peering into half-opened doors, pushing through groups of men, pursuing some one in the distance who appeared to be the man I sought, only to find he was unknown to me.  When I returned to the gangway the last of the passengers was leaving it.

I was about to follow to seek for Talbot in the customs shed when a white-faced steward touched my sleeve.  Before he spoke his look told me why I was wanted.

“The ship’s surgeon, sir,” he stammered, “asks you please to hurry to the sick-bay.  A passenger has shot himself!”

On the bed, propped up by pillows, young Talbot, with glazed, shocked eyes, stared at me.  His shirt had been cut away; his chest lay bare.  Against his left shoulder the doctor pressed a tiny sponge which quickly darkened.