“Why she’s in her room, sir, at this hour.”
“Do you suppose I could speak to her?” It had come into my mind to ask her why she had wanted to know of me if I should recognise Mr. Porterfield.
“No sir,” said the stewardess; “she has gone to bed.”
“That’s all right.” And I followed the young lady’s excellent example.
The next morning, while I dressed, the steward of my side of the ship came to me as usual to see what I wanted. But the first thing he said to, me was: “Rather a bad job, sir—a passenger missing.” And while I took I scarce know what instant chill from it, “A lady, sir,” he went on—“whom I think you knew. Poor Miss Mavis, sir.”
“Missing?” I cried—staring at him and horror-stricken.
“She’s not on the ship. They can’t find her.”
“Then where to God is she?”
I recall his queer face. “Well sir, I suppose you know that as well as I.”
“Do you mean she has jumped overboard?”