I nodded. Perhaps it was for his sake that Marcia Lawrence had taken that wild step. That would be like a woman.

"You may be right," I said. "I'd never thought of that solution, but Mrs. Lawrence's last words to me would seem to point that way. She said that the matter would rest in your hands-that it would be for you to choose, after you'd heard the story."

"I don't want to hear the story!" Curtiss cried. "Good G.o.d! What do I care for the story! I've made my choice, once and forever! I want her! Of course it was to spare me she ran away! She'd never think of herself!"

I might have retorted that it had been a rather questionable form of mercy; that she could scarcely have inflicted on him any suffering more acute than that which he had undergone. But I forbore; instead, I took the telegram again and studied it.

"If you really wish to find her," I said, "perhaps this will give us a clue."

"I do wish to find her."

"This form will tell us which station this message was sent from, I think. Wait here a minute," and I crossed the hall to the brokerage offices of Sims & Wesson. "May I speak to your operator?" I asked of the junior partner.

"Certainly," he said, and waved me to the little room where the instruments were clicking merrily away.

"Can you tell me what these characters mean?" I asked, placing the message before the operator and pointing to the row of figures and letters at the top of it-"61CWDDSA8PD."

"The sixty-one," he said, "means that this was the sixty-first message received at Elizabeth this morning; 'CW' means that the message was filed at the Christopher Street office-corner Christopher and West; 'DD' and 'SA' are the initials of the operators who sent and received the message; '8PD' means that there are eight words in the message and that it was prepaid. It's the regular form used on all Western Union messages."

"Thank you," I said, and hurried back across the hall elated, for I had learned more than I had dared to hope.

"Well?" asked Curtiss, looking up with anxious face.

"The message was filed at the Christopher Street office," I said, "Christopher and West streets--"

"West Street?" echoed Mr. Royce. "What on earth was she doing there?"

"She could have been doing only one thing," I pointed out exultantly. "When a woman goes down to the docks, it must be--"

"To take a boat!"

"Just so! And when she goes to that particular portion of the docks, it must be to take a trans-Atlantic liner."

Curtiss stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; then he rose heavily to his feet.

"Well, I can follow her even there," he said, and started for the door.

But Mr. Royce had him by the arm.

"My dear Curtiss!" he protested. "Think what a wild-goose chase you're starting on!"

"Better than sitting idle here," retorted Curtiss doggedly; and I could not but agree with him.

"Perhaps we can narrow the search down a little," I said. "Suppose we drive around to the West Street office."

"Just what I was about to do," said Curtiss, and led the way to the elevator.

During that drive across town, we found little to say. Curtiss was deep in his own thoughts, and I saw from the way Mr. Royce looked at him, how anxious he was concerning him. But at last we reached our destination.

"Can you give me any description of the person who sent this message?" I asked, and spread out the telegram before the man at the desk. "Perhaps you'll let us see the original."

He glanced at the message and then at us.

"No question of a mistake, I hope?" he said. "The message reads straight enough."

"No," I answered; "rather a question of preventing a mistake. I hope you won't refuse us."

He glanced us over again and seemed to understand.

"It's a little irregular," he said; "but I guess I can do it."

He opened a drawer, and ran through a sheaf of papers.

"Here it is," he said, and laid a sheet before us. "You see the message was correctly sent."

"Yes," I agreed; but it was not at the message I was looking; it was at the sheet upon which it was written-a sheet which had embossed at the top the words "S. S. Umbria."

"Who sent the message?" I asked.

"It was brought in by a messenger from the Cunard line pier."

"What time did the Umbria sail?"

"She was to have sailed at twelve o'clock, but was delayed by a little accident of some sort. Perhaps she's still at her pier."

I thanked fortune that I had told our cabman to wait; I think Curtiss would have been crazed by any delay. As it was, we rushed from the office and crowded in.

"The Cunard pier!" cried Mr. Royce, "and in a hurry!" and he waved a bill under the cabman's nose.

Not until we were under way did Curtiss speak.

"Did you see?" he asked, in a voice which shook convulsively. "The message was in Marcia's writing."

"Yes," I said. "I recognised it."

"We must catch the boat. Why don't that fellow whip up?"

"He's going as fast as he can," said Mr. Royce. "Sit still, Curtiss," and he threw an arm about him.

What a ride that was over the cobble-stones! Half a dozen times I thought a collision inevitable, but we had fallen into skilful hands, and were safely piloted through openings in the crowd of vehicles where it seemed a hand-barrow could not hope to go.

"Here we are!" cried cabby, and we tumbled out. He had done his best to earn his tip, and got it.

The pier was crowded, but we forced our way along it with scant regard for the feelings of other people. Had the ship sailed-were we in time--

"She's gone," said Mr. Royce, as we gained the front of the crowd. "See there."

There she was, headed squarely down the stream, just gathering speed. There was a flutter of hand-kerchiefs from her deck, we could see the people crowding against the rail in their eagerness to wave a last good-bye--