She was appealing. "Oh dear, have I said anything I shouldn't? I mean, I was only supposing, to sort of relieve the monotony; because it has been rather dull, you know, and there hasn't been anything really funny, dear Captain Whistler, since I saw you playing handball on the boat-deck. But if there were a notorious criminal on board, it would be exciting. And it might be anybody. It might be Hank. Or it might be Dr. Kyle — mightn't it?"
"Verra likely," agreed Dr. Kyle composedly, and went on dissecting fish.
"But if I did have anything on my mind," declared the captain, in heavy joviality, "it would be about your uncle, Miss Glenn. He's promised to give us a full-dress performance of his marionettes at the ship's concert. And that's to-morrow night, my dear. He mustn't be ill for that, you know. He and his assistant — ah — well, they're — they're improving, aren't they?" said the captain, his voice rising to a desperate bellow as he tried to divert her. "I have looked forward, I have hoped, I have waited for the — ah — pleasure, the supreme honour," yelled Captain Whistler, of being present at a performance. And now you really must excuse me. I mustn't forget my duties, even at the expense of your charming company. I must — er — go. Good night, my dear. Good night, gentlemen."
He rolled away. There was a silence. Of the diners left at roundabout tables, Morgan noticed swiftly, only three people glanced after him. There was the sharp-edged, bony, shock-haired face of Mr. Charles Woodcock, the commercial traveller, who peered out motionless with his soup-spoon poised above his mouth as though he were going to pose for a figure on a fountain. At another table some distance away Morgan saw a man and a woman— both thin and well-dressed, their pale faces looking curiously alike except that the woman wore a monocle and the man a floating blond moustache like a feather waving from his lip. They stared after the captain. Morgan did not know who they were, but he saw them every morning. They made endless circuits of the promenade-deck, in absolute silence walking rapidly, with their eyes fixed straight ahead. One morning, in dull fascination, Morgan had watched them make one hundred and sixty-four circuits without a word. At the hundred and sixty-fifth they had stopped; the man said, "Eh?" and the woman said, "Ah!" and then they both nodded and went inside. It had occurred to Morgan to speculate how their marital relations were conducted… Anyhow, they seemed to be interested in the movements of Captain Whistler.
"The captain," said Morgan, frowning, "seems to have something on his mind…";
"Verra likely," agreed Dr. Kyle composedly. "I'll have the tripe and onions, steward."
Peggy Glenn smiled at him. "But I say, Doctor, do you think there might be a mysterious master criminal aboard?"
"Why, I'll tell you," said the doctor, bending his head. His shrewd eyes were amused; under the ragged brows whisking upwards at the corners, and with the furrows deepening round his mouth, Morgan thought uncomfortably that he looked a little too much like Sherlock Holmes. "And I'll put in a word of warning gratis. You're a clever young lady, Miss Glenn. But don't pull Captain Whistler's leg too hard. He'd be a bad man to have on the wrong side of anybody. Please pass the salt."
The dining-saloon soared up on another swell, and tilted amid sour notes from the orchestra. "But, really," said Peggy, "I mean, it's perfectly true about poor old Curt… "
"Oh, ah!" said Dr. Kyle. "Was he sober?"