“I think so. We’ll go to the nearest big port—Arendal. If he isn’t there, we’ll cross Norway during the day and try Stavanger. He had a cockney stall with him. I’d know either man in a million. Harry has a drawl like a music-hall performer. He’s an American crook who apes the English. They always overdo it.â€�
She showed him her hat after smiling faintly. The plumes had dried and were presentable. Her ruching was pressed and turned. Her shoes had been touched up with the corner of a towel and some polish supplied by the deck-steward.
He studied her hair—blue-black, coiled from right to left—before she placed her hat on her head. Her lashes matched her hair to the fraction-shade. Her olive eyes held the faint suggestion of the Oriental—particularly in their inscrutable droop.
“You look splendid!� he declared with admiration.
“I’m glad you changed your mind about coming north. I think—candidly, we’re going to find out something from Harry Raymond. He won’t talk to me—or tell me anything—but he don’t know you. You have a clever way that’ll get through his guard. Perhaps he’ll play Banker and Broker with you. It’s an easy game to trim a gull with.â€�
“Gull?� Her brows raised to polite arches of inquiry at the argot.
“I mean pigeon,� he said, hardly making matters better. “He’ll play you for one, if you act right and don’t overact.�
“You seem confident that we’ll run across him.�
“He only works the big ports and the fast boats. He’s sure to be in Arendal or Stavanger. Or else he’s on the ocean.�
She rose from the bunk and switched out her light. “Let’s go on deck,â€� she said, pressing open the door and glancing out. “There’s the coast of Norway, over there—so the steward says. We’ll soon be in port.â€�