I scanned it in haste. To my surprise and delight, a pencilled entry half-way down the list gave the name, “Professor Sebastian.”
“Oh, Sebastian is going by this steamer?” I murmured, looking up.
The sandy-haired clerk hummed and hesitated. “Well, I believe he's going, sir,” he answered at last; “but it's a bit uncertain. He's a fidgety man, the Professor. He came down here this morning and asked to see the list, the same as you have done. Then he engaged a berth provisionally—'mind, provisionally,' he said—that's why his name is only put in on the list in pencil. I take it he's waiting to know whether a party of friends he wishes to meet are going also.”
“Or wishes to avoid,” I thought to myself, inwardly; but I did not say so. I asked instead, “Is he coming again?”
“Yes, I think so: at 5.30.”
“And she sails at seven?”
“At seven, punctually. Passengers must be aboard by half-past six at latest.”
“Very good,” I answered, making up my mind promptly. “I only called to know the Professor's movements. Don't mention to him that I came. I may look in again myself an hour or two later.”
“You don't want a passage, sir? You may be the friend he's expecting.”
“No, I don't want a passage—not at present certainly.” Then I ventured on a bold stroke. “Look here,” I said, leaning across towards him, and assuming a confidential tone: “I am a private detective”—which was perfectly true in essence—“and I'm dogging the Professor, who, for all his eminence, is gravely suspected of a great crime. If you will help me, I will make it worth your while. Let us understand one another. I offer you a five-pound note to say nothing of all this to him.”