"This is the wrong cabin, sir," said he.
"I think not," said the other. "It has been booked by a Mr. Valentine, I believe. I have here a police warrant for his arrest."
The usual effect of a police warrant can only be described as electrical. The steward allowed the Gladstone bag to fall from his hand, and stood regarding the detective in amazement.
"What shall I do?" he asked.
"Mr. Valentine has come on board?" asked Etheridge, disregarding the steward's question.
"He is on the promenade deck now."
"Then show him down to his cabin, and leave us together. You need not trouble to remain at hand, as several of my assistants are on board the ship, and besides, I am provided with these," he added, producing a Colt revolver and a pair of handcuffs.
The steward went out, walking on tiptoe, with the demeanour of a man who is conscious that he finds himself on dangerous ground. And no sooner was the door closed than Etheridge flung himself at the Gladstone bag as a hungry dog might tackle a bone. To undo the straps was the work of a moment. Producing a skeleton key from his pocket, he succeeded in opening the lock, and then turned out the complete contents of the bag upon the floor.
He found nothing more suspicious than a suit of pyjamas, washing materials and an extraordinary number of neckties of every conceivable colour, tone and shade. He bundled these back into the bag with scant ceremony; and no sooner had he done so than the door was opened, and there entered a man wearing a tweed suit and one of those soft felt hats which are so popular in the United States.
"I understood," said he, regarding Etheridge in surprise, "I understood this was my cabin--D41."