In spite of all the months that had passed, the sight of that brass plate was like a knife in his body. He turned from the island to dash across a very dangerous road, and came within an ace of the death that would have been so welcome. A taxi avoided him by an almost miraculous swerve, for which, when he realized it, he did not thank the driver. All at sea he crossed the Square and entered Pall Mall. In the process of time he came to the home of _Brown's Magazine_. Edward Ambrose gave him a welcome that nearly brought tears to his eyes. "My dear boy!" he said. "Not one word in all these months! Anyhow you have come back to us." It was impossible to doubt the friendship and the affection of this greeting. The Sailor felt a pang of shame. As a fact, he had been too modest to expect such loyalty. "I'm ... I'm sorry." "You had no right to forget your friends," said Edward Ambrose, a little resentfully. He knew the workings of this childishly open mind, and it hurt him that a sincere emotion should have been underrated. "Yes," said the Sailor queerly. "It was rotten." "You are looking splendidly brown and well," said Edward Ambrose as soon as it seemed the part of wisdom to speak. "You don't mean to say that Dick Smith has been sailing the high seas all these long months?" "Not Dick Smith. Ulysses." Ambrose gave a little start of pure pleasure. "Then," he said, "a master mariner has really come into port?" "No." He stifled a groan. "And never will, I'm thinking. That poor sailor man is still becalmed east by west of Nowhere, and never a sign of land on either bow." "But you _must_ put it through somehow. Tell me ... is there anything I can do to help you?" The Sailor shook his head miserably. "I can't accept that as final," said Edward Ambrose. "It's--it's--I hesitate to say what it may be if only you carry it out as you have conceived it. If you don't do that I some how feel the high gods will never forgive you ... or me." If anything could have rekindled Aladdin's lamp in the Sailor's soul it would have been the enthusiasm of this friend. But it was not to be; the trolls had him captive. "I'm sorry," he said gently, knowing the stab he dealt. "It is no fault of yours. It's you that's made me all I am ... and if any man could have helped me here you would have been that man. But I'm just a broken mariner. It's no use mincing it--I'm done." The stark simplicity of the confession made Edward Ambrose gasp. He could say nothing. In the honest eyes was a look of consternation.