The Cinema Murder | Page 8

Everything was wonderfully simplified. If only he could get across, once reach New
York! Meanwhile, he looked at his watch again and discovered that it wanted but ten
minutes to three. He made his way back down to his stateroom, which was already filled
with his luggage. He shook out an ulster from a bundle of wraps, and selected a tweed
cap. Already there was a faint touch of the sea in the river breeze, and he was impatient
for the immeasurable open spaces, the salt wind, the rise and fall of the great ship. Then,
as he stood on the threshold of his cabin, he heard voices.
"Down in number 110, eh?"
"Yes, sir," he heard his steward's voice reply. "Mr. Romilly has just gone down. You've
only a minute, sir, before the last call for passengers."
"That's all right," the voice which had spoken to him over the telephone that morning
replied. "I'd just like to shake hands with him and wish him bon voyage."
Philip's teeth came together in a little fury of anger. It was maddening, this, to be trapped
when only a few minutes remained between him and safety! His brain worked swiftly. He
took his chance of finding the next stateroom empty, as it happened to be, and stepped
quickly inside. He kept his back to the door until the footsteps had passed. He heard the
knock at his stateroom, stepped back into the corridor, and passed along a little gangway
to the other side of the ship. He hurried up the stairs and into the smoking-room. The
bugle was sounding now, and hoarse voices were shouting:
"Every one for the shore! Last call for the shore!"
"Give me a brandy and soda," he begged the steward, who was just opening the bar.
The man glanced at the clock and obeyed. Philip swallowed half of it at a gulp, then sat
down with the tumbler in his hand. All of a sudden something disappeared from in front
of one of the portholes. His heart gave a little jump. They were moving! He sprang up
and hurried to the doorway. Slowly but unmistakably they were gliding away from the
dock. Already a lengthening line of people were waving their handkerchiefs and shouting
farewells. Around them in the river little tugs were screaming, and the ropes from the
dock had been thrown loose. Philip stepped to the rail, his heart growing lighter at every
moment. His ubiquitous steward, laden with hand luggage, paused for a moment.
"I sent a gentleman down to your stateroom just before the steamer started, sir," he
announced, "gentleman of the name of Gayes, who wanted to say good-by to you."
"Bad luck!" Philip answered. "I must have just missed him."
The steward turned around and pointed to the quay.
"There he is, sir--elderly gentleman in a grey suit, and a bunch of violets in his buttonhole.

He's looking straight at you."
Philip raised his cap and waved it with enthusiasm. After a moment's hesitation, the other
man did the same. The steward collected his belongings and shuffled off.
"He picked you out, sir, all right," he remarked as he disappeared in the companionway.
Philip turned away with a little final wave of the hand.
"Glad I didn't miss him altogether," he observed cheerfully. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Gayes!
Good-by, England!"
CHAPTER IV
Mr. Raymond Greene, very soon after the bugle had sounded for dinner that evening,
took his place at the head of one of the small tables in the saloon and wished every one
good evening. It was perfectly apparent that he meant to enjoy the trip, that he was
prepared to like his fellow passengers and that he wished them to know it. Even the
somewhat melancholy-looking steward, who had been waiting for his arrival, cheered up
at the sight of his beaming face, and the other four occupants of the table returned his
salutation according to their lights.
"Two vacant places, I am sorry to see," Mr. Greene observed. "One of them I can answer
for, though. The young lady who is to sit on my right will be down directly--Miss
Elizabeth Dalstan, the great actress, you know. She is by way of being under my charge.
Very charming and talented young lady she is. Let us see who our other absentee is."
He stretched across and glanced at the name upon the card.
"Mr. Douglas Romilly," he read out. "Quite a good name--English, without a doubt. I
have crossed with you before, haven't I, sir?" he went on affably, turning to his nearest
neighbour on the left.
A burly, many-chinned American signified his assent.
"Why, I should say so," he admitted, "and I'd like a five-dollar bill, Mr. Greene, for every
film I've seen of yours in the United States."