"Very good, sir."
"Sure it's good! It's devilish good. Here's a beautiful and newly
minted gold sovereign. Isn't it artistic? It's yours, steward."
"Thanky, sir."
"Not at all. And, by the way, what's that invalid gentleman's name?"
"'Awks, sir."
"Hawks?"
"Yes, sir; Mr. 'Erbert 'Awks."
"American?"
"I don't know, sir."
"British?"
"Shall I inquire, sir?" starting to go.
"Not of him! Don't be a lunatic, steward! Please try to understand
that I want nothing said about this matter or about my inquiries."
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. Herbert Hawks is. Find
out all you can concerning him. It's easy money, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, sir----"
"Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives on board?"
"Not that I know, sir."
"Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge skirts and white
shoes and stockings?"
"No, sir, not as I knows of."
"Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, and ask him if he
rang. And, if the door is opened, take a quick slant at the room."
"Very good, sir."
Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward cross the corridor
and knock at the door of Mr. Herbert Hawks.
"Well, what iss it?" came a heavy voice from within.
"Mr. 'Awks, sir, did you ring?"
"No, I did not."
"Oh, beg pardon, sir----"
The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but that young man
motioned him violently away from his door and closed it. Then,
listening, his ear against the panel, he presently heard a door in the
passage creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily.
He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. Hawks or his
fair friend in the white skirt had merely taken a preliminary survey
of the passage and perhaps also of his closed door. But the vigil was
vain; the door did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom across
the passageway.
To make certain that the owner of the white shoes and stockings did
not leave that stateroom without his knowledge, he opened his door
with many precautions and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber
band from knob to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in the
passage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his curtain, he sat
down to wait.
He had a book, one of those slobbering American novels which serve up
falsehood thickly buttered with righteousness and are consumed by the
morally sterilised.
And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he listened. One eye always
remained on duty; one ear was alert; he meant to see who was the owner
of the white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to find
out.