Early the following morning a little, insignificant-looking man stepped aboard the trans-Atlantic liner Volucria. At the head of the gangway two men blundered into him. The younger of the two, who carried a small bag, was turning to apologise, when a light of recognition flashed across his face.
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Storey!" he exclaimed loudly. "Where are you off to? I haven't seen you for an age."
"I'm afraid," said Philip Storey, "I haven't the pleasure——"
"Cut it out," said the other, laughing. "I'd know that scar of yours anywhere. Going out to the States?"
"Well, yes," said the other, seeing that his acquaintance's boisterous manner was attracting attention. "I beg your pardon. It's Lord Peter Wimsey, isn't it? Yes. I'm joining the wife out there."
"And how is she?" enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar and sitting down at a table. "Left last week didn't she? I saw it in the papers."
"Yes. She's just cabled me to join her. We're—er—taking a holiday in—er—the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer."
"Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd how things turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute. Chasing criminals—my hobby, you know."
"Oh, really?" Mr. Storey licked his lips.