“Now you’re getting interesting. Who is this man?”
“Oh, quite the swell mobsman—Raffles and Arsène Lupin and all that sort of thing rolled into one. His name’s Ismay—Arbuthnot Ismay. Clever—wonderful, they say; the police have never been able to fasten anything on him, though he’s been known to boast of his jobs in advance.”
“You told Miss Landis this?”
“Certainly—and she laughed.”
This seemed quite credible of the lady. Staff considered the situation seriously for a moment or two.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said at length; “though I’m not hopeful of making her see it from your point of view. Still, I will speak to her.”
“That’s good of you, I’m sure. You couldn’t do more.”
“You’re positive about this Ismay?” Staff pursued. “You couldn’t be mistaken?”
“Not I,” asserted the purser confidently. “He crossed with us last year—the time Mrs. Burden Hamman’s jewels disappeared. Ismay, of course, was suspected, but managed to prove every kind of an alibi.”
“Queer you should let him book a second time,” commented Staff.