And he was off at a half run. He grabbed coat and hat, jumped into a taxicab, and drove home.
There he took down the telephone receiver, called for Pacific 6589, and startled Johnny Wall, the jolly, plump little Canadian who directed the local fortunes of the Atlantic steamship lines, out of a sound and dreamless sleep.
"Get me a passage, Johnny! Immediately!"
"What are you talking about? Are you drunk?"
"I am not. I am mad!"
"You sound like it. . ." Wall was about to slam down the receiver, when Tom begged him frantically to wait.
"I'm not mad the way you mean. I am quite sober and quite sane."
"Well—what do you want?"
"I want to go to Europe!"
"When?"
"Immediately. Get me a ticket or whatever you call the fool things. And, Johnny, not a word to anybody. I am making a sneak!"
"All right, Tom. I'll fix you up. Come to my office in the morning."
And so, the next afternoon, after a visit to the Old National Bank where he arranged with Donald McLeod, the black-haired Scotch cashier, for transmission of funds, he took train for New York. He did not even say good-by to Martin Wedekind for fear of running into Bertha.
But Wedekind found out about Tom's departure just the same, for Johnny Wall blabbed, and when Tom Graves, who had four days in New York before his steamer sailed, called at the steamship office for his berth, he found there a special delivery letter from Wedekind, wishing him luck on the journey,
