So far Edward Henry's plan was not miscarrying. But he had a very great deal to do, and very little time in which to do it, and whereas the muscles of the other passengers were relaxed as the ship drew to her berth, Edward Henry's muscles were only more tensely tightened. He had expected to see Mr. Seven Sachs on the quay, for in response to his telegram from Queenstown the illustrious actor-author had sent him an agreeable wireless message in full Atlantic; the which had inspired Edward Henry to obtain news by Marconi both from London and New York, at much expense; from the east he had had daily information of the dwindling receipts at the Regent Theatre, and from the west daily information concerning Isabel Joy. He had not, however, expected Mr. Seven Sachs to walk into the _Lithuania's_ music-saloon an hour before the ship touched the quay. Nevertheless, this was what Mr. Seven Sachs did, by the exercise of those mysterious powers wielded by the influential in democratic communities. "And what are you doing here?" Mr. Seven Sachs greeted Edward Henry with geniality. Edward Henry lowered his voice. "I'm throwing good money after bad," said he. The friendly grip of Mr. Seven Sachs's hand did him good, reassured him, and gave him courage. He was utterly tired of the voyage, and also of the poetical society of Carlo Trent, whose passage had cost him thirty pounds, considerable boredom, and some sick-nursing during the final days and nights. A dramatic poet with an appetite was a full dose for Edward Henry; but a dramatic poet who lay on his back and moaned for naught but soda-water and dry land amounted to more than Edward Henry could conveniently swallow. He directed Mr. Sachs's attention to the anguished and debile organism which had once been Carlo Trent, and Mr. Sachs was so sympathetic that Carlo Trent began to adore him, and Edward Henry to be somewhat disturbed in his previous estimate of Mr. Sachs's common sense. But at a favourable moment Mr. Sachs breathed humorously into Edward Henry's ear the question: "What have you brought _him_ out for?" "I've brought him out to lose him." As they pushed through the bustle of the enormous ship, and descended from the dizzy eminence of her boat-deck by lifts and ladders down to the level of the windy, sun-steeped rock of New York, Edward Henry said: "Now, I want you to understand, Mr. Sachs, that I haven't a minute to spare. I've just looked in for lunch." "Going on to Chicago?" "She isn't at Chicago, is she?" demanded Edward Henry, aghast. "I thought she'd reached New York!" "Who?" "Isabel Joy." "Oh! Isabel's in New York, sure enough. She's right here. They say she'll have to catch the _Lithuania_ if she's going to get away with it." "Get away with what?" "Well--the goods." The precious word reminded Edward Henry of an evening at Wilkins's and raised his spirits even higher. It was a word he loved.