"You'll have the honeymoon yet," said Mr. Royce, with a certainty I thought a little forced. "What will you do for clothes?"
"I can make out some way till I get to the other side—the steward can help me."
Mr. Royce was again looking at him anxiously.
"I don't like it," he said, "your running off this way. You'll kill yourself."
"Oh, I'll be all right," Curtiss assured him. "A sea-voyage is just what would have been prescribed for me," and he attempted a smile.
"But you've got the worst stateroom on board," and indeed the Oceanic had been so crowded that he was fortunate to get that.
"No matter," said Curtiss. "I'd have gone if there'd been no place but the steerage."
"There's one thing," I said. "Have you an enemy in New York who might try to do you an injury? That would explain the letter, you know."
Curtiss thought for a moment with knitted brows. Then he shook his head.
"No," he said decidedly, "I have no enemy—certainly none who'd descend to stabbing me in the back. Besides, what could even the most unscrupulous enemy have written? How could he have hurt me? I can't understand it," he added wearily.