He went to his office early the following morning, and at ten o’clock, summoning a hansom, had himself driven to a florist’s. There he purchased two dozen and one roses and personally superintended the packing and dispatching of them. His selection may have struck the attendant as somewhat unique, consisting, as it did, of a dozen white blossoms, a dozen pink ones, and a single half-blown bud of deep crimson; but Burton, remembering Kitty’s wont, thought she would understand. After the flowers had been sent he hesitated a moment on the curb. In the end he sent the cab away. He did not want to present himself at the hotel before eleven; the thought of sitting inactive in a club window was distasteful; he would walk slowly uptown. So he crossed to the Avenue and, lighting a fresh cigarette, idled from window to window in a desperate attempt to kill time. He allowed no display on the shady side of the street to pass unexamined, and by the time he had reached his northerly goal his brain was a kaleidoscope of sporting prints, French landscapes, jewelry, silk stockings, bric-à-brac, lingerie, and smokers’ articles. But it was eleven o’clock! [Illustration] This time there was no premonition of disappointment. He sought the desk and produced his card. “Sorry, but Colonel Barrett and his niece left ten minutes ago for the steamer,” said the clerk. “Steamer!” gasped Burton. “What steamer?” “I’ll find out for you in a minute from the porter.” He disappeared, leaving Burton leaning against the desk staring blankly out onto the sun-smitten pavement. In a moment he returned. “Trunks went to the American Line pier, sir.” “Thank you,” Burton muttered. Then, turning suddenly at the doorway, “What time is the sailing?” [Illustration] “Half after twelve, sir, I believe.” Burton glanced at his watch, compared it with the smug-faced clock over the desk, and strode to the steps. But again he turned: “I sent a box of flowers here for the young lady this morning; did she get them?” “No, sir, they came just after she’d left. They’re here; I was going to send them back to the florist’s.” That was a wild race against time! With the long box of roses between his knees, one hand on his watch, and a cigarette hanging unlighted from his lips, Burton sat like a stern-faced Fate and was whirled from the hotel to the wharf in what was practically one long bump. When the horse was pulled back on his haunches before the pier entrance there was no need to ask questions: a stream of persons whose handkerchiefs still hung from their hands was emerging into the hot sunlight. With a groan Burton threw himself back against the cushions. “Never before in the history of ocean travel has a steamship left on time,” he muttered. [Illustration] “But to-day--oh, damn!”