“Here. Close at hand.”
As they walked off together she discovered out of the corner of her eye that his glance was searching the thinning mob of her fellow passengers. She guessed that he had recognized some person unexpectedly.
“Are you sure I am not trespassing on your time?” she demanded.
“Quite sure. When I said the sun was in my eyes I used poetic license. I meant the West African sun. A man who arrived on your steamer reminded me of Nigeria—where we—er—became acquainted.”
“There! You want to speak to him, of course,” and she halted suddenly.
He smiled again, and held out the bag.
“He is a Portuguese gin–trader—and worse. And he is gone. Would you have me run after him and offer peaches that were meant for you?”
“But that is ridiculous.”
“Most certainly.”
“I don’t mean that. How could you possibly have provided peaches for me?”