He looked at her then for the first time, keenly, even critically. His clean-shaven mouth wore a very curious expression.
"My name is West," he said, after a moment.
She nodded briskly.
"Your professional name, I suppose. You are a professional, of course?"
His eyes continued to watch her narrowly. They were blue eyes, piercingly, icily blue.
"Why 'of course,' if one may ask?"
She laughed a light, sweet laugh, inexpressibly gay. Cynthia Mortimer could be charmingly inconsequent when she chose.
"I don't think you are a bit clever, you know," she said. "I knew what you were directly I saw you standing by the gangway watching the people coming on board. You looked really professional then, just as if you didn't care a red cent whether you caught your man or not. I knew you did care though, and I was ready to dance when I knew you hadn't got him. Think you'll track him down on our side?"
West turned his eyes once more upon the heaving, grey water, carelessly flicking the ash from his cigarette.
"I don't think," he said briefly. "I know."