“There are two fellows aboard this packet—a red-haired fellow named Chelwyn and a disguised duke named Brown—what do you know about ’em?”
The purser made a face. It was intended to convey his lack of real interest in either.
“I’ll put it plainly,” said the patient Timothy. “Are they crooks?”
“They play cards,” said the purser diplomatically.
He desired at this the eleventh hour to avoid scandal, explanations, and such other phenomena which he associated in his mind with the confrontation of the wise men and their dupes. That sort of thing brought the Line into disrepute, and indirectly reflected upon the ship’s officers. Besides, the ship was making port, and, like all pursers, he was up to his eyes in work and frantically anxious to clear it off in a minimum time so that he could take a train to his little villa at Lytham, where his family was established.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson, if you’ve been stung,” he said, “but the captain gives fair warning the first night out of Cape Town and Madeira—that’s where you came aboard, isn’t it?—and there were notices posted up, both in the saloon and in the smoking-room. Have you lost much?”
He looked up with some sympathy at the tall, athletic figure with the tired, smiling eyes.
“I cleared up £500 at the Funchal Casino,” said Timothy, “and I reckon I have spent £100 legitimately.”
“The rest is gone, eh?” said the purser. “Well, Mr. Anderson, I am afraid I can do nothing. The best thing to do is to mark it down against ‘Experience’.”
“I’ll forgive you for being philosophical about my losses,” said Timothy. “Will you be kind enough to tell me the number of Mr. Chelwyn’s cabin?”