Lord John in New York

								

in my face, scalding hot.  But by the time I'd thanked my informant,
paid my waiter and picked up my crutches, I knew why I had had that
presentiment.  I taxied to Cook's and learned that, owing to the war, I
could get a cabin on any ship I liked.  From Cook's to the doctor's;
found him going out, dragged him home with me, and utilised his
services in wrestling with the matron and nurses.  "The play of my book
is being produced in New York, and I must be there, dead or alive," I
explained.  This seemed to them important, even unanswerable.  It would
not to my sister-in-law.  But she was having influenza at home, and I
sneaked off before she knew (having got leave from the War Office),
sending her a grateful, regretful telegram from Liverpool.
Even the amateur sleuth doesn't let a ship carry him away to sea
without making sure that his quarry is on board.  Roger Odell's name
was not on the passenger list, but neither was mine; we were late
comers.  Nevertheless, I knew he was certain to have a good cabin, and
I inquired casually of a steward on the promenade deck whether he had
"Seen Mr. Odell yet?"  He fell into my trap and answered that he had
not, but his "mate" would be looking after the gentleman who was in the
bridal suite.
I pricked up my ears, remembering that, according to Carr Price, there
was a girl in the case.  Something unexpected had happened to upset
Odell's plans in England.  Could he be running off with anybody's wife
or daughter?
"I didn't know that Mr. Odell was on his honeymoon," I ventured as a
feeler.
The steward looked nonplussed, then grinned.  "Oh, you're thinking of
the bridal suite, sir!" he patronised my ignorance.  "There's nothing
in that.  Probably the gentleman wired for the best there was.  He's
alone, sir.  Do you wish to send word to him?  I can fetch my mate----"
I broke in with thanks, saying that I would see Mr. Odell later.  No
doubt I would do so; but how I should recognise him was the question.
Meanwhile, I limped about the deck, hoping to come across a chair
labelled "Odell," and vainly searching I met a deck-steward.  He took
pity on my lameness, and offered to get me a chair at once.  "Where
would you like to sit, sir?"
I wanted to say, "Put me next to Mr. Roger Odell," but that was too
crude a means towards the end.  I looked around, hesitating and
hoping--in a way I have which sometimes works well--for an inspiration,
and my wandering eyes arrived at a girl.  Then they ceased to wander.
She was extraordinarily pretty, and therefore more important than
twenty Roger Odells.  She was just settling into her deck-chair.  To
the right was another chair, with a rug and a pillow on it.  To the
left was an unfilled space.
"There's room over there," I said.  "It seems a well-sheltered place."
"It is, sir," replied the steward.  Without allowing an eye to twinkle,
he solemnly plumped down my chair at the left of the girl, not too