Cynthia got up and came around the desk. Passport in hand she moved to the window for a better light. As she examined the picture she was aware of the silent tenseness behind her and suddenly had an idea of how important all this was, important to several people. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember more fully the face she had sketched, not from the side as she had drawn him, but as he had quickly turned to gaze at her, full face, under the dark frowning brows. Then she looked again at the picture in her hand. It was very like. Still ...
“No, it’s not the same man.”
There was a little stir in the room and Mr. Carruthers got up and came to stand beside her.
“But it’s very like him.” Something teased at her brain. Like and not like ... like and not like ...
“It might be a relation,” she hazarded dubiously. “This man,” she tapped the passport, “has had a broken nose at some time. We had a model with one at the Academy, so I recognized the peculiar shape.” It was not at all like the beaky feature she had sketched.
Absently she gazed at the cover of the passport. “What cabin is this man in? The one with the passport.”
“He’s in 376, Miss,” the purser answered.
And Cynthia was in 374, right across the little corridor. The passport in her hand was Canadian, and Miss Mitchall had said ... “Look here,” Cynthia said suddenly, “could my roommate be called? I think she might be able to help us;” and added, “you can be sure she won’t talk.”
The captain glanced dubiously at Stasia’s father. “The less people who know about this ...” then, at the other’s nodded gesture toward the purser, “ask her to come here,” he commanded gruffly.
Miss Mitchall, slightly fluttering, was produced almost immediately. Cynthia didn’t try to explain the circumstances, just showed her the passport. “Did you ever see this man? I mean, does he look familiar?”