She did not leave the hotel until long after the ship had sailed. He did not telephone. There were a dozen calls on the wire that morning, but she had her maid take the messages. There was always the fear that he might try to reach her while some one of her idle friends was engaged in making a protracted visit with her over the wire. About one o'clock Simmy Dodge called up to ask if he could run in and have luncheon with her. "I've got a message for you," he said. Her heart began to beat so violently that she was afraid he would hear it through the receiver at his ear. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment. Evidently he thought she was preparing to put him off with some polite excuse. Simmy was, as ever, considerate. He made haste to spare her the necessity for fibbing. "I can drop in late this afternoon—" "No," she cried out, "come now, Simmy. I shall expect you. Where are you?" He coughed in some embarrassment. "I'm—well, you see, I was going past so I thought I'd stop in and—What? Yes, I'm downstairs." She joined him in the palm room a few minutes later, and they went in to luncheon. Her colour was high. Simmy thought he had never seen her when she looked more beautiful. But he thought that with each succeeding glimpse of her. "'Pon my word, Anne," he said, staring at her across the table, "you fairly dazzle me. Forgive me for saying so. I couldn't help it. Perfect ass sometimes, you see." "I forgive you. I like it. What message did Braden send to me?" He had not expected her to be so frank, so direct. "I don't know. I wish I did. The beggar wrote it and sealed it up in this beastly little envelope." He handed her the square white envelope with the ship's emblem in the corner. Before looking at the written address, she put her next question to him. A good deal depended on his answer. "Do you know when he wrote this note, Simmy?" "Just before they pushed me down the gang-plank," he said. A light broke in upon him. "Did you send him a message?" "Yes." "Well, I don't know whether it is the right thing to say, but I can tell you this: he wrote this note before reading your letter or telegram or whatever it was. He had a score of things like that and he didn't open one of 'em until she'd cast off." She smiled. "Thank you, Simmy. You have said the right thing,—as you always do." One glance at the superscription was enough. It was in his handwriting. For the first time she saw it in his hand: "Anne Tresslyn Thorpe." A queer little shiver ran through her, never to be explained. Simmy watched her curiously as she slipped the missive, unopened, into her gold mesh bag. "Don't mind me," he said. "Read it."