When Staff went below a little later, he was somewhat surprised to find
his stateroom alight,--surprised, because he had rather expected that
Mr. Iff would elect to sleep off his potations in darkness.
To the contrary, the little man was very much awake, propped up in his
berth with a book for company, and showed no effects whatever of
overindulgence, unless that were betrayed by a slightly enhanced
brightness of the cool blue eyes which he brought to bear upon his
roommate.
"Good morning!" he piped cheerfully. "What on earth got you up so early?
The bar's been closed an hour and more."
"Is that why you came to bed?" enquired Staff.
"Sure," agreed Mr. Iff complacently.
Staff quietly began to shed his clothing and to insert his spare frame
into pajamas. Iff lay back and stared reflectively at the white-painted
overhead girders.
"Got to slip it to you," he observed presently, "for perfect mastery of
the dignified reserve thing. I never knew anybody who could better
control his tumultuous emotions."
"Thanks," said Staff drily as he wound up his watch.
"Anything 'special troubling you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You talk so darn much."
"Sorry if I'm keeping you awake," said Staff politely.
"Oh, I don't mean to seem to beef about it, only ... I was wondering if
by any chance you'd heard the news?"
"What news?"
"About me."
"About you!" Staff paused with his fingers on the light-switch.
"About my cute little self. May I look now?" Iff poked his head over the
edge of the upper berth and beamed down upon Staff like a benevolent,
blond magpie. "Haven't you heard the rumour that I'm a desperate
character?"
"Just what do you mean?" demanded Staff, eyeing the other intently.
"Oh, simply that I overheard the purser discussing me with his
assistant. He claims to recognise in me a bold bad man named Ismay,
whose specialty is pulling off jobs that would make Sherlock Holmes ask
to be retired on a pension."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are you Ismay?"
A broad, mocking grin irradiated the little man's pinched features.
"Don't ask me," he begged: "I might tell you."
Staff frowned and waited a minute, then, receiving no further response
to his enquiry, grunted "Good night," turned off the light and got into
his berth.
A moment later the question came out of the darkness overhead: "I
say--what do _you_ think?"
"Are you Iff or Ismay--you mean?"
"Aye, lad, aye!"
"I don't know. It's for you to say."
"But if you thought I was Ismay you'd shift quarters, wouldn't you?"
"Why?"
"Because I might pinch something of yours."
"In the first place," said Staff, yawning, "I can't shift without going
into the second cabin--and you know it: the boat's full up. Secondly,
I've nothing you could steal save ideas, and you haven't got the right
sort of brains to turn them to any account."
"That ought to hold me for some time," Iff admitted fairly. "But I'm
concerned about your sensitive young reputation. Suppose I were to turn
a big trick this trip?"
"As for instance--?"
"Well, say I swipe the Cadogan collar."
"Then I'd stand just so much the better chance of catching you
red-handed."
"Swell notion you've got of the cunning of the Twentieth Century
criminal, I must say. D' you for an instant suppose my work's so coarse
that you could detect grits in it?"
"Then you _are_ Ismay?"
"My son," said the other solemnly, "your pertinacity shan't go
unrewarded: I will be frank with you. You shall know all. I am Iff--the
eternal question."
"Oh, go to thunder!" said Staff indignantly.
But as he slipped off to sleep he could hear the man overhead chuckling
quietly, beneath his breath....
The next few days would have provided him with ample opportunity in
which to ponder the question of his roommate's identity, had Staff
chosen so to occupy his time. As it happened, Heaven was kind to the
young man, and sent a gale of sorts, which, breaking upon the Autocratic
the following morning, buffeted her for three days and relegated to
their berths all the poor sailors aboard, including the lady with the
pink soul and underthings. Of Mrs. Thataker, indeed, Staff saw nothing
more until just before the vessel docked in New York. He wasn't
heartless by any manner of means; he was, as a matter of fact, frankly
sorry for the other poor passengers; but he couldn't help feeling there
was a lot of truth in the old saw about an ill wind....
Otherwise the bad weather proved annoying enough in several ways. To
begin with, Alison Landis herself was anything but a good sailor, and
even Miss Searle, though she missed no meals, didn't pretend to enjoy
the merciless hammering which the elements were administering to the
ship. Alison retired to her suite immediately after the first breakfast
and stuck religiously therein until the weather moderated, thus
affording Staff no chance to talk with her about the number of
immediately interesting things on his mind. While Miss Searle stayed
almost as steadily in her quarters, keeping out of harm's way and
reading, she told Staff when they met at meals. Mrs. Ilkington, of
course, disappeared as promptly as Mrs. Thataker. In consequence of all
of which, Staff found himself thrown back for companionship on Bangs,
who bored him to the point of extinction, Arkroyd, whom he didn't like,
and Iff, who kept rather out of the way, dividing his time between his
two passions and merely leering at the younger man, a leer of infinite
cunning and derision, when chance threw them together.
In despair of finding any good excuse for wasting his time, then, Mr.
Staff took unto himself pens, ink, paper and fortitude and--surprised
even himself by writing that fourth act and finishing his play.
Again--an ill wind!
And then, as if bent on proving its integral benevolence so far as
concerned Mr. Staff, the wind shifted and sighed and died--beginning the
operation toward sundown of the third day out from Queenstown. The
morning of the fourth day dawned clear and beautiful, with no wind worth
mentioning and only a moderate sea running--not enough to make much of
an impression on the Autocratic. So pretty nearly everybody made public
appearance at one time or another during the morning, and compared notes
about their historic sufferings, and quoted the stewardess who had been
heard to say that this was the worst westbound passage the boat had ever
made, and regained their complexions, and took notice of the incipient
flirtations and--well, settled down in the usual way to enjoy an ocean
voyage.
Staff, of course, was on deck betimes, with an eye eager for first sight
of Alison and another heedful of social entanglements which might
prevent him from being first and foremost to her side when she did
appear. But for all his watchfulness and care, Mrs. Ilkington
forestalled him and had Alison in convoy before Staff discovered her;
and then Arkroyd showed up and Mrs. Ilkington annexed him, and Bangs was
rounded up with one or two others and made to pay court to Mrs.
Ilkington's newly snared celebrity and ... Staff went away and sulked
like a spoiled child. Nor did his humour become more cheerful when at
lunch he discovered that Mrs. Ilkington had kept two seats at their
table reserved for Miss Landis and Arkroyd. It had been a prearranged
thing, of course; it had been Alison with whom Mrs. Ilkington had talked
about him in Paris; and evidently Alison had been esquired by Arkroyd
there. Staff didn't relish the flavour of that thought. What right had
Arkroyd to constitute himself Alison's cavalier on her travels? For
that matter, what right had Alison to accept him in such a capacity?...
Though, of course, Staff had to remind himself that Alison was in
reality not bound in any way....
But he had his reward and revenge after lunch. As the party left the
table Alison dropped behind to speak to him; and in interchange of
commonplaces they allowed the others to distance them beyond earshot.
"You're a dear," the young woman told him in a discreet tone as they
ascended the companionway.
"I'm bound to say," he told her with a faint, expiring flicker of
resentment, "that you hardly treat me like one."
Her eyes held his with their smiling challenge, half provocative, half
tender; and she pouted a little, prettily. In this mood she was always
quite irresistible to Staff. Almost against his will his dignity and his
pose of the injured person evaporated and became as if they had never
been.
"Just the same," she declared, laughing, "you are a dear--if you _don't_
deserve to be told so."
"What have I done?" he demanded guiltily--knowing very well on what
counts he was liable to indictment.
"Oh, nothing," said Alison--"nothing whatever. You've only been haughty
and aloof and icy and indifferent and everything else that men seem to
consider becoming to them when they think they're neglected."
"You certainly don't expect me to _like_ seeing Arkroyd at your side all
the time?"
"Oh!" she laughed contemptuously--"Arkroyd!" And she dismissed that
gentleman with a fine sweeping gesture. "Can I help it if he happens to
travel on the same ship?"
They halted at the top of the steps.
"Then it was accidental--?" he asked seriously.
"Staff!" The young woman made an impatient movement. "If I didn't like
you--_you_ know how much--upon my word I'd snub you for that. You are a
bear!"
"A moment ago I was a dear."
"Oh, well, I'm fond of all sorts of animals."
"Then I advise your future husband to keep you away from zoos."
"Oh, Staff! But wouldn't you want me to come to see you once in a
while?"
He jerked up one hand with the gesture of a man touched in a
fencing-bout. "You win," he laughed. "I should've known better...."
But she made her regard tender consolation for his discomfiture. "You
haven't told me about the play--our play--_my_ play?"
"It's finished."
"Not really, Staff?" She clasped her hands in a charmingly impulsive
way. He nodded, smiling. "Is it good?"
"You'll have to tell me that--you and Max."
"Oh--Max! He's got to like what I like. When will you read it to me?"
"Whenever you wish."
"This afternoon?"
"If you like."
"Oh, good! Now I'm off for my nap--only I know I shan't sleep, I'm so
excited. Bring the 'script to me at two--say, half-past. Come to my
sitting-room; we can be alone and quiet, and after you've finished we
can have tea together and talk and--talk our silly heads off. You
darling!"
She gave him a parting glance calculated to turn any man's head, and
swung off to her rooms, the very spirit of grace incarnate in her young
and vigorous body.
Staff watched her with a kindling eye, then shook his head as one who
doubts--as if doubting his own worthiness--and went off to his own
stateroom to run over the type-script of his fourth act: being
fortunate in having chosen a ship which carried a typist, together with
almost every other imaginable convenience and alleged luxury of life
ashore.
Punctual to the minute, manuscript under his arm, he knocked at the door
of the sitting-room of the _suite de luxe_ occupied by the actress. Her
maid admitted him and after a moment or two Alison herself came out of
her stateroom, in a wonderful Parisian tea-gown cunningly designed to
render her even more bewilderingly bewitching than ever. Staff thought
her so, beyond any question, and as unquestionably was his thought
mirrored in his eyes as he rose and stood waiting for her greeting--very
nearly a-tremble, if the truth's to be told.
Her colour deepened as she came toward him and then, pausing at arm's
length, before he could lift a hand, stretched forth both her own and
caught him by the shoulders. "My dear!" she said softly; and her eyes
were bright and melting. "My dear, dear boy! It's so sweet to see you."
She came a step nearer, stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his
cheek with her lips.
"Alison ...!" he cried in a broken voice.
But already she had released him and moved away, with a lithe and
gracious movement evading his arms. "No," she told him firmly, shaking
her head: "no more than that, Staff. You mustn't--I won't have
you--carry on as if we were children--_yet_."
"But Alison--"
"No." Again she shook her head. "If I want to kiss you, I've a perfect
right to; but that doesn't give you any licence to kiss me in return.
Besides, I'm not at all sure I'm really and truly in love with you. Now
do sit down."
He complied sulkily.
"Are you in the habit of kissing men you don't care for?"
"Yes, frequently," she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; "I'm
an actress--if you've forgotten the fact."
He pondered this, frowning. "I don't like it," he announced with
conviction.
"Neither do I--always." She relished his exasperation for a moment
longer, then changed her tone. "Do be sensible, Staff. I'm crazy to hear
that play. How long do you mean to keep me waiting?"
He knew her well enough to understand that her moods and whims must be
humoured like a--well, like any other star's. She was pertinaciously
temperamental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are so, for the
most part--invariably so, if on the stage. That kind of temperament is
part of an actress' equipment, an asset, as much an item of her stock in
trade as any trick of elocution or pantomime.
So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in hand and prepared to
make the best of the situation. With a philosophic shrug and the wry,
quaint smile so peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take up
his manuscript; but in the very act, remembering, withheld it.
"Oh, I'd forgotten ..."
"What, my dear?" asked Alison, smiling back to his unsmiling stare.
"What made you send me that bandbox?" he demanded without further
preliminary; for he suspected that by surprising the author of that
outrage, and by no other method, would he arrive at the truth.
But though he watched the woman intently, he was able to detect no
guilty start, no evidence of confusion. Her eyes were blank, and a
little pucker of wonder showed between her brows: that was all.
"Bandbox?" she repeated enquiringly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient air, "the thing you
bought at Lucille's, the day before we sailed, and had sent me without a
word of explanation. What did you do it for?"
Alison relaxed and sat back in her chair, laughing softly. "Dear boy,"
she said--"do you know?--you're quite mad--quite!"
"Do you mean to say you didn't--?"
"I can't even surmise what you're talking about."
"That's funny." He pondered this, staring. "I made sure it was you.
Weren't you in London last Friday?"
"I? Oh, no. Why, didn't I tell you I only left Paris Saturday morning?
That's why we had to travel all day to catch the boat at Queenstown, you
know."
He frowned. "That's true; you did say so.... But I wish I could imagine
what it all means."
"Tell me; I'm good at puzzles."
So he recounted the story of the bandbox incognito, Alison lending her
attention with evident interest, some animation and much quiet
amusement. But when he had finished, she shook her head.
"How very odd!" she said wonderingly. "And you have no idea--?"
"Not the least in the world, now that you've established an alibi. Miss
Searle knows, but--"
"What's that?" demanded Alison quickly.
"I say, Miss Searle knows, but she won't tell."
"The girl who sat next to Bangs at lunch?"
"Yes--"
"But how is that? I don't quite understand."
"Oh, she says she was in the place when the bandbox was purchased--saw
the whole transaction; but it's none of her affair, says she, so she
won't tell me anything."
"Conscientious young woman," said Alison approvingly. "But are you quite
sure you have exhausted every means of identifying the true culprit? Did
you examine the box yourself? I mean, did you leave it all to the
housemaid--what's her name--Milly?"