They fell into line behind a queue of passengers, winding slowly toward a table where officials were receiving and inspecting passports. He stood well in front of her, doing his best to hide her. When his turn came and the official held out his hand, he presented her passport with his own perfunctorily.
“Mine and my secretary's.”
The official was on the point of returning them, when a stockily-built man leaned across his shoulder and whispered something. Both of them looked up, staring hard at Santa.
“Which is Miss Jones?” the official asked.
“This lady at my side.”
“So you're Miss Jones, an American citizen?”
Before she could reply, Hindwood had interposed. “I've already told you she's Miss Jones. If you'll look, you'll see that her passport's marked Diplomatic as well as mine.”
The two men consulted together in lowered tones. Then the passport was O.K.'d and restored.
Picking it up, together with the embarkation permits, Hindwood strolled leisurely towards the gangplank. Directly they were on board he hurried Santa to her cabin and shut the door.
“You'll stay here till we sight France. I'm giving no one else the opportunity for suspecting a likeness.”