“Sure thing,” said others. “Nothing said about it in the captain’s statement—looks queer.”

“Vell, vwhat of it,” said Mr. Meyer, painfully and stupidly: “dere is a collision clause in der Titan’s policy; I merely bay the money to der steamship company instead of to der Royal Age beeple.”

“But why did the captain conceal it?” they shouted at him. “What’s his object—assured against collision suits.”

“Der looks of it, berhaps—looks pad.”

“Nonsense, Meyer, what’s the matter with you? Which one of the lost tribes did you spring from—you’re like none of your race—drinking yourself stupid like a good Christian. I’ve got a thousand on the Titan, and if I’m to pay it I want to know why. You’ve got the heaviest risk and the brain to fight for it—you’ve got to do it. Go home, straighten up, and attend to this. We’ll watch Rowland till you take hold. We’re all caught.”

They put him into a cab, took him to a Turkish bath, and then home.

The next morning he was at his desk, clear-eyed and clear-headed, and for a few weeks was a busy, scheming man of business.

CHAPTER XI

ON a certain morning, about two months after the announcement of the loss of the Titan, Mr. Meyer sat at his desk in the Rooms, busily writing, when the old gentleman who had bewailed the death of his son in the Intelligence office tottered in and took a chair beside him.

“Good morning, Mr. Selfridge,” he said, scarcely looking up; “I suppose you have come to see der insurance paid over. Der sixty days are up.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Meyer,” said the old gentleman, wearily; “of course, as merely a stockholder, I can take no active part; but I am a member here, and naturally a little anxious. All I had in the world—even to my son and grandchild—was in the Titan.”