Morning found Storm with a desperate, hunted look in his eyes still pacing the floor, his heart sick within him. Why had that blundering ass, Millard, told him yesterday? Why had he been plunged in the madness of a fool’s paradise for a few short hours, only to be drawn back into an existence that had become all the more unbearable by contrast?
He had contrived a sufficient measure of calmness in the late hours to read the amplification of the damning headlines. The Alsace was supposed to have struck one of the floating mines of which she had been warned, and to have gone down with all on board. No calls for help had been received by wireless, no survivors picked up. Another liner, westward bound, had run into a mass of wreckage on the course of the unfortunate ship; wreckage which denoted a fearful explosion and fragments of which bore the name “Alsace”. That was all; but it was conclusive, damning to Storm’s last hope.
The morning’s news had little to add save a verification of the ocean tragedy in a message radioed from a second ship which had encountered the flotsam of the wreck. It was evident beyond peradventure of a doubt that the ill-fated Alsace had been blown to atoms, and all on board must have perished instantly with her.
The article was followed by a copy of the passenger list together with brief obituaries of the more prominent of the wreck’s victims, and beneath it was a terse paragraph which verified Millard’s disclosures of the previous day. The notorious swindler, Jan Martens, alias Maurice du Chainat, was known to have been on board, and arrangements had been made to take him in custody upon the arrival of the ship at her destination; in fact he had been placed nominally under arrest by the captain of the Alsace, as the last wireless message known to have been sent out from the unfortunate ship announced. It was feared that the bulk of the money netted by his gigantic swindle had gone down with him.
Storm left his breakfast untasted, deaf to the polite concern of Homachi, and took his miserable way to the trust company. God, how he loathed it all! The very sight of his desk, familiar through long years of usage, awoke anew the spirit of senseless, futile revolt; doubly futile now since the mirage of a different future had risen again only to be blotted out.
In the bitterness of soul which surpassed anything he had known in his blackest hours, Storm forced himself to go through with the dreary round; but the close of day found him desperate, at bay. He could not go on! What was the use, anyway? What did the future hold for him now? Only memories which rose up in the silent hours to take him by the throat, from which there could be no escape while life lasted!
With the waning afternoon the sky had become overcast, and twilight brought a gentle summer rain through which Storm plodded doggedly. Food was distasteful, the thought of a restaurant was abhorrent to him in his morose mood, and yet he shrank from hours of solitude in his apartment. He was afraid of himself, afraid to think, and he longed desperately for the companionship of a fellow being; not George nor anyone connected with his life of the past ten years, but someone unconcerned in his affairs, someone with whom he could talk and forget.
He had seized upon the trivial excuse of a call at his cigarette importer’s as an expedient to while away a half hour. The tobacconist’s shop was just across the street from the Grand Central Station, and as Storm passed among the arrivals who swarmed out of the edifice one face in the crowd caught his eye. Little of it was visible, the collar of his light summer ulster turned up to meet it, and he tramped along beneath his umbrella without glancing to right or left.
Storm caught him impulsively by the arm.
“Jack!” he cried. “Where on earth did you drop from?”