Mason arose, bowed, and said, in a low tone, “Laugh.”
Mrs. Moar gave a feeble attempt at laughter, turned and swept from the room.
Mason sat down at the table, twisted the stem of his cocktail glass in his fingers, glanced up at the door where Celinda Dail had been standing. She was no longer visible.
Chapter 4
Sunday afternoon, a wind, howling up from the south and west, caught the ship on the quarter, sent smoke from the funnels streaking down the sky, and kicked up a sea which made for a nasty roll. The weather deck was lashed by torrents of rain, while oily smoke and hot gas from the funnels made the deck untenable.
Mason, threading his way down the creaking corridor of C deck, confronted Belle Newberry as she swayed along the passageway, bracing herself from time to time with her hands.
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Long?” the lawyer asked.
“All day.”
“I’ve been in my cabin, reading. Why didn’t you give me a buzz?”