“If you’d been an hour and a half earlier you could have gone with the ‘Neptune,’” he said, with a smile. “She has only just left the dock. A fine vessel, too; one of our fastest.”
Trafford frowned impatiently.
“When does the next sail?” he asked.
“Thursday morning,” replied the clerk. As he spoke he turned over the passenger’s list mechanically.
“No, you wouldn’t have been able to go by the ‘Neptune,’ though, for she was full up. Her last two berths were taken this afternoon.”
“Is there none before Thursday?” asked Trafford, wearily.
“Not from here. The Blue Ball liner leaves Liverpool to-morrow,” said the clerk, reluctantly—his company was the White Ball. “You might catch her; but she’s not a particularly good ship, and not fast; nothing to be compared to ours.”
Trafford leaned against the desk; he was feeling the sinking, exhausted sensation which comes from want of food, too many cigars, and much mental travail, and the clerk eyed him almost sympathetically.
“Pity you weren’t here in the afternoon and secured one of those berths before the gentleman who took them. He’s a lord, I see—Lord Norman Druce.”
Trafford started and gazed at the man fiercely.