“Who else besides the estimable Hubbard will feel the feathery brunt of my pen?” I inquired.

“Well, you’ll be rubbing shoulders with some interesting passengers, there in Saloon.”

“Saloon Class” was the Cunard line’s designation for first class. . ah, first class. . if one were to be a prostitute, let it be on a soft mattress between sweetly-scented sheets. .

“After Hubbard,” Rumely said, “your prime candidate will be Alfred Vanderbilt. . probably the richest man on earth.”

“I’ll offer to take his suits to the ship’s cleaner for him,” I said. “Perhaps a million or two will turn up in his pockets.”

The owner of the restaurant, August “Augy” Luchow-a robust gentleman whose considerable girth was matched only by his bonhomie and perhaps his handlebar mustache-was making a fuss over Captain Turner.

Rumely said, “This Madame DePage-have you read of her?”

I sipped my snifter, tasted the cognac, let its warmth roll down my gullet. “The Belgium relief fund woman? She’s been too conspicuous in the press to miss, even for an apolitical lout like myself. Is she travelling the Lusitania?”

“Yes, she and the one hundred fifty thousand dollars in war relief cash that she’s raised in recent weeks. Her motives seem sincere-she could rate a good human-interest piece.”

“Anyone else?”

“Frohman’ll be aboard. He’s always good for a story. People love show business, you know.”

Charles Frohman was the leading theatrical producer of the day-the man who brought Peter Pan to the stage, and Maude Adams to Peter Pan.

Rumely handed me a manila envelope. “There are your tickets and other materials-using the pseudonym you requested. Is the ‘S.S.’ a reference to steamship, or to Mr. S.S. McClure, your benefactor?”