Staff laughed, sufficiently diverted to forget his troubles for the time being.
“I wish I could make you out,” he said slowly, eyeing the older man.
“You mean you hope I’m not going to take you in.”
“Either way—or both: please yourself.”
“Ah!” said the little man appreciatively—“I am a deep one, ain’t I?”
He laid a finger alongside his nose and looked unutterably enigmatic.
At this point they were interrupted: a man burst into the smoking-room from the deck and pulled up breathing heavily, as if he had been running, while he raked the room with quick, enquiring glances. Staff recognised Mr. Manvers, the purser, betraying every evidence of a disturbed mind. At the same moment, Manvers caught sight of the pair in the corner and made for them.
“Mr. Ismay—” he began, halting before their table and glaring gloomily at Staff’s companion.
“I beg your pardon,” said the person addressed, icily; “my name is Iff.”
Manvers made an impatient movement with one hand. “Iff or Ismay—it’s all one to me—to you too, I fancy—”