“Can we? Can I get a photograph of it, do you think?”
“No—but that won’t deter you from snapping off at it.”
Mrs. Blair laughed.
“You are unkind. Some of my photographs are very good.”
“About three percent effective, I should say.”
We all went round to the other side of the deck. There glimmering white and snowy, enveloped in a delicate rose-coloured mist, rose the glistening pinnacle. I uttered an exclamation of delight. Mrs. Blair ran for her camera.
Undeterred by Colonel Race’s sardonic comments, she snapped vigorously:
“There, that’s the end of the roll. Oh,” her tone changed to one of chagrin, “I’ve had the thing at ‘bulb’ all the time.”
“I always like to see a child with a new toy,” murmured the colonel.
“How horrid you are—but I’ve got another roll.”
She produced it in triumph from the pocket of her sweater. A sudden roll of the boat upset her balance, and as she caught at the rail to steady herself the roll of films flashed over the side.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Blair, comically dismayed. She leaned over. “Do you think they have gone overboard?”
“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward in the deck below.”
A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew a deafening blast on a bugle.
“Lunch,” declared Mrs. Blair ecstatically. “I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast, except two cups of beef tea. Lunch, Miss Beddingfeld?”
“Well,” I said waveringly. “Yes, I do feel rather hungry.”
“Splendid. You’re sitting at the purser’s table, I know. Tackle him about the cabin.”
I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and finished by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday congratulated me on my recovery. Everyone was changing cabins today, he told me, and he promised that my things should be moved to an outside one without delay.
There were only four at our table, myself, a couple of elderly ladies, and a missionary who talked a lot about “our poor black brothers.”
I looked round at the other tables. Mrs. Blair was sitting at the captain’s table, Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of the captain was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good many people I had already noticed on deck, but there was one man who had not previously appeared. Had he done so, he could hardly have escaped my notice. He was tall and dark, and had such a peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite startled. I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.
“That man? Oh, that’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary. Been very seasick, poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got two secretaries with him, and the sea’s been too much for both of them. The other fellow hasn’t turned up yet. This man’s name is Pagett.”
So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board. Probably only a coincidence, and yet—
“That’s Sir Eustace,” my informant continued, “sitting next to the captain. Pompous old ass.”
The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously flattened head—it all gave me a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.
Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I overheard a fragment or two. “I’ll see about the cabin at once then, shall I? It’s impossible to work in yours, with all your trunks.”
“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (a) for me to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.”
“That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to work …”
Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.
“Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “Not 13.”
Thirteen is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice cabin too. I inspected it, wavered, but a foolish superstition prevailed. I appealed almost tearfully to the steward.
“Isn’t there any other cabin I can have?”
The steward reflected.
“Well, there’s 17, just along on the starboard side. That was empty this morning, but I rather fancy it’s been allotted to someone. Still, as the gentleman’s things aren’t in yet, and as gentlemen aren’t anything like so superstitious as ladies, I dare say he wouldn’t mind changing.”
I hailed the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to obtain permission from the purser. He returned grinning.
“That’s all right, miss. We can go along.”
He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as no. 13, but I found it eminently satisfactory.
“I’ll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.
But at that moment, the man with the sinister face (as I had nicknamed him) appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of Sir Eustace Pedler.”
“That’s all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We’re fitting up no. 13 instead.”
“No, it was no. 17 I was to have.”
“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”
“I specially selected no. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But no. 17 has been allotted to me.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
The steward put in his oar.
“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”
“I want no. 17.”
“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things in here. This is my cabin.”
It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”
“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.
We were all getting rather heated.
“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.
He edged himself sideways into the doorway.
“You’re to have no. 28 on the
