Della Street nodded. “There’s a natural resemblance,” she said, “and Miss Newberry accentuates it by the way she does her hair. I think she more or less consciously imitates Winnie Joyce in her manner. She’s a bit hypnotized by Hollywood.”
“Everyone is,” Mason grinned, “including Hollywood.”
“Well,” Della told him, “I’m going to hunt up a steward and have him put my lei in the refrigerator. See you in the morning, Chief.”
She walked rapidly forward, leaving Mason standing at the rail, watching the intermittent flashing of signal lights, inhaling the scents of the warm tropical air. The decks became silent and deserted, as passengers, fatigued by a strenuous last day in the Islands, the night sailing, and the strain of farewells, sought their cabins.
Mason turned abruptly as a woman mentioned his name.
“I’m Mrs. Newberry, Mr. Mason,” she said. “My daughter’s sharing the cabin with your secretary, so I know all about you. I saw you standing at the rail as we walked past— I— I want to consult you.”
“Professionally?” Mason asked.
She nodded.
Mason studied her with patient, appraising eyes. “What about?”
“About my daughter, Belle,” she said.