It was then that Trent became more communicative. He was rather a soldier of fortune, he acknowledged; intrigue lured him. But the Mongol was as wary as he, for, perceiving the change in tactics, he turned the talk into another channel.
A few minutes later he moved on. Trent watched him limp off and puzzled over this anomaly of a man. What was his object in catechizing him? He could not even surmise; but he determined to take a drastic step toward finding out.
His first move led him to the purser's office. Closing the door quietly behind him, he said:
"I would like to borrow your pass-key a moment."
"Sorry, sir," came the polite reply, "but it's against orders. I can unlock your door—if you've lost the key—but—"
"Suppose you call the captain," Trent suggested.
"Tell him Mr. Tavernake wants to borrow the key. I'll be responsible for it."
While the purser was telephoning, Trent scanned the register. "Hsien Sgam—No. 227," he read.
"It's all right, sir," reported the purser, hanging up the receiver, a new note of respect in his voice.
Trent circled the deck, assured himself that Hsien Sgam was in the smoking-room, then went aft to cabin No. 227. A turn of the key, a glance behind into the vestibule-way, and he was inside. He locked the door; drew the curtain across the window.