'I don't know,' I said. It was a point that had been puzzling me. 'Why do you speak of him as — poor Mr Dahler?'
She leaned forward, peering into the binnacle, and then shifted her grip on the wheel. 'He has suffered so much. That arm — it quite upset me to see him like that.'
'You've met him before?' I asked.
'Yes. Long, long ago — at our home.' She looked up at me, smiling. 'He doesn't remember. I was a little girl in pigtails, then.'
'Was he a business contact of your father's?'
She nodded and I asked her what sort of business he had been engaged in.
'Shipping,' she replied. 'He owned a fleet of coastal steamers and some oil tankers. His firm supplied us with fuel. That's why he came to see my father. Also he had an interest in one of the shore whaling stations, so they liked to talk. Father enjoyed being with anyone who was prepared to talk whaling.'
'Why is Dahler scared to go back to Norway?' I asked. 'Why does Jorgensen say he's liable to be arrested?'
'I don't know,' She was frowning as though trying to puzzle it out. 'He was always such a dear. Each time he came he brought me something from South America. I remember he used to say that's what he kept tankers for — to bring me presents.' She laughed. 'He took me skiing once. You wouldn't think it now, but he was a fine skier.'
We fell silent after that. I was trying to visualise Dahler as he had been. She, too, I think was lost in the past. Suddenly she said, 'Why doesn't Major Wright deliver those messages he talked about?' She did not seem to expect any reply for she went on, 'All these people on board your ship going to look at his grave; it's — somehow it's frightening.'