The Purser's office in the Main Saloon was vacant, but Hugh buttonholed a passing steward.
"Lord Chesby, sir? Yes, sir, he was one of the first ashore. There was a gentleman to meet him, I think, sir."
"That's queer," muttered Hugh as we returned to the gangway.
"Our best bet is to go straight to the C space in the Customs lines," I said.
"But who could meet him besides us?" objected Hugh.
"It's damned queer," I agreed. "What does your uncle look like?"
"He's small, stocky, not fat. Must be around sixty," said Hugh vaguely.
We surveyed the space under the letter C, where porters were dumping trunks and bags and passengers were arguing with the inspectors.
"No, he's not here," said Hugh. "Wait, though, there's Watkins!"
"Who's Watkins?" I asked, boring a passage beside him through the crowd.