‘Ash tray, silver too,’ he soliloquised. ‘Give ’im by a girl likely. ’Air brushes, monogram an’ all. Nice bit o’ work. Books, letters, fountain pen. I think that’s the lot.’
His eye caught a small silver frame standing on the table forlorn and forgotten.
‘’Ullo, photograph.’ He held it to the light. ‘Nice-looking young woman, and a kid. Might be ’is Missis. P’raps it is, poor gell!’
He locked the cases and looked round the cabin.
‘Nothin’ forgot. No. I think that’s all this time.’
With much laboured breathing he wrote the owner’s name and address, and, carefully tacking the card on the lid of the sea-chest, stood back to admire the result.
‘Effects of the Late Lieutenant Shelldon, R.N.——’
Through the open port the sound of an order floated, and the churning of twin screws. It was ‘147’ going to sea.
A Sub-Lieutenant and a Midshipman stood on the quarter-deck of a neighbouring battleship.
* * * * *