“What news?”
“About me.”
“About you!” Staff paused with his fingers on the light-switch.
“About my cute little self. May I look now?” Iff poked his head over the edge of the upper berth and beamed down upon Staff like a benevolent, blond magpie. “Haven’t you heard the rumour that I’m a desperate character?”
“Just what do you mean?” demanded Staff, eyeing the other intently.
“Oh, simply that I overheard the purser discussing me with his assistant. He claims to recognise in me a bold bad man named Ismay, whose specialty is pulling off jobs that would make Sherlock Holmes ask to be retired on a pension.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you Ismay?”
A broad, mocking grin irradiated the little man’s pinched features. “Don’t ask me,” he begged: “I might tell you.”