Rounding the bay of the break of the pilot-house and chart-room, and passing under the dripping staunchions of the bridge, he clasped the handle of a sliding door and pressed firmly.
A gust of mist and briny air drove through the welcome opening. Fay entered and closed the door. He moved, not too swiftly, toward a lounge where he could overlook the players, pressed a button on the cabin furnishing, and threw open his coat with a relieved motion as he sat down.
An under-steward came from aft and stared about
the room. Fay leaned over a little table, whispered “hot Scotch� and rubbed his hands from which the oakum stains had almost been effaced.
He turned then, and stared point-blankly at the players. The man with the glasses faced him. There was a scar on the chin. There was a firm set to the mouth. There was that which told of a young man who had the oldest face in the world. It was Broadway-trained and set to the wise leer of an international swindler.
“Um,â€� thought Fay, crossing his leg and intensifying his stare. “Ump!â€� he added under his breath. “That’s an old friend—Ace-in-the-hole Harry. No wonder the poor squire is being trimmed.â€�
Fay shot a final glance and turned toward the under-steward, who held the Scotch on a silver tray.
Taking the drink, he passed over a shilling and a sixpence, set the glass down, and started making tiny circles on the table with his finger nail.
“Last time I saw him,â€� he reflected, “was at ‘Jimmy’s.’ Time before that, was in Cairo—at Shepherd’s. And the time before Shepherd’s was on a Cape boat—the Kenilworth Castle—where he was trimming gulls by the ancient and honorable game of dealing seconds.â€�
Fay divined with professional intuition that the fish-mouthed cockney was Harry’s partner, although their voices were raised in angry recriminations.