Inspector French put up at a small hotel near the town station, and next morning was early at the White Star offices. There he learned that the Olympic was even at that moment coming in, and he went down to the quays and watched the berthing of the monster vessel. It was an impressive experience to see her creep up to her place, manœuvre into position, and make fast. Then from her gangways began to stream the travellers who, for the better part of a week, had journeyed aboard her. Some were hurrying, already intent on business or anxious to catch trains, others leisurely awaiting taxis and motorcars, some smilingly greeting friends or waving farewells to voyage acquaintances, all drifting gradually away, their places taken by others—and still others. . . . French began to think the exodus would never cease, but at last the crowd diminished, and he pushed his way on board and began a search for the purser. Urgent work in connection with the arrival prevented that busy official from attending to him at once, but he sent a steward to show French to his cabin, and presently joined him there.
“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Inspector,” he apologised. “You want some information about our home trip in late November?”
“Yes,” French answered, and he explained his business and produced Mrs. Root’s marked photographs, concluding, “I want to find out the names and addresses of these eight women, and as much information as possible about them.”
“I’m afraid I could scarcely give you that,” the purser answered. “The records of each trip go ashore at the end of the trip, and I have only those of this present run. But some of the staff might remember the names of the ladies, and if so, you could get their addresses at the office ashore.”
“That would do excellently. I have a copy of the passenger list here, if it would be of any use.”
“Yes, it would be a reminder. Let me see now if I can help you myself, and if not, I think I can put you in the way of getting to know.” He began to scrutinise the photographs.
“That’s Mrs. Root,” French indicated, moving round and looking over the other’s shoulder. “She gave me the names of five, but I should like to check her recollection. The other three she couldn’t remember.”
The purser nodded as he turned the pictures over. “That’s a Mrs. Forbes,” he pointed, “and I rather think that is a Miss Grayson or Graves or some name like that. I remember most of these other faces, but not the people’s names.”
“Mrs. Forbes and Miss Grayson are correct according to Mrs. Root.”
The purser laid down the photographs with the air of quiet decision which seemed characteristic.