“I don't know what to make of you,” said Miss Clinton, sorely puzzled. Her aunt was clutching her arm. “You seemed so awfully jolly the other night. And—and just look at you now.”
She moved away, followed by the bespectacled young woman and the steamer-rugs, graceful despite the sudden yank with which her aunt set her in motion. Percival managed to keep an eye on her till she turned the corner. Then he sighed.
The Captain halted in front of him.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Spofford and her niece, Percival?” he inquired.
“Miss Clinton has done me the honour to remember meeting me night before last at the Alcazar Grand, sir. Mrs. Spofford is not so generous.”
“I see,” said Captain Trigger reflectively. “You will report at once to Mr. Gray. He will give you a less public job, as you call it.” A twinkle came into his eyes. “He doesn't like the hat you're wearing. Nor the shirt. Nor the boots.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, by the way, Percival, as soon as you are slightly refurbished I want you to stroll through the second cabin and if possible identify the two stewards who came to No. 22. Let me see, was it during the day or at night?”
“Some time during the night, sir. Eleven or half-past, I should say.”
“Very well.”