“What name did you say?” he demanded so sternly that the young fellow drew back as if he expected a blow.
“There’s the entry; you can see for yourself, sir,” he said, rather sullenly, and pointing to the book. Trafford looked at it, and for a moment could see nothing; then he read the line, “Lord Norman Druce, two berths. Nos. 128, 129. Paid.”
The blood surged to his face, and he gripped the edge of the desk.
The young man altered his opinion of the gentleman’s character.
“Did—was Lord Druce alone? Was he accompanied by a lady?” Trafford asked in a thick voice.
“Can’t say, sir,” replied the clerk. “The berths were booked with the agent himself. I only came on for the nightwork, and didn’t see the gentleman.”
“Is—is there any one here who did?” asked Trafford. The clerk considered for a moment.
“I’ll go and see; one of the porters or the dock-man might have noticed. Just wait a moment, sir.”
He was gone five minutes, which seemed five years to Trafford, who could not remove his eyes from the significant entry.
“I can’t find out for certain, sir,” said the clerk, upon his return. “There’s always such confusion in starting; but one of our men says he saw a gentleman, a tall, fair man, talking with a lady in the saloon deck, and he fancies they went aboard together; but he couldn’t swear to it.”