"But luckily Farrell's located at Wimbledon. Where's Jack?" I asked.
"Don't know," answered Jimmy.
"I'm tired enough for this night, anyhow," said I. "And here's
Jephson.--'Evening, Jephson."
Jephson came in with a can in one hand and in the other a tray with a
telegram upon it.
"Good evening, Sir Roderick! Glad to see you safe home, sir," said
Jephson. "Telegram just delivered at the Lodge for Mr. Collingwood."
"For me?" said Jimmy. "I've backed nothing to-day. Been too busy."
He tore upon the envelope, read the message, and after a pause handed
it to me, whistling softly. It had been handed in at the Docks
Station, Liverpool, and it ran--
"Tell O. that F. and I sail to-night New York S.S. _Emania_.
"Foe."
NIGHT THE TWELFTH.
THE "EMANIA".
I am going to spin the next stretch of this yarn--and maybe the next
after it--in my own way. You will wonder how I happened by certain
scraps of information: but you will understand before we come to the
end.
It comes mainly from later report, but partly from documents which I
have been too busy, of late, to sift.
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