"Yes."
"Nice—fellow."
"Yes."
"Er—Cleo—that is, both Cleo and I, are old friends of his, you know."
Takashima's face was still enigmatical.
Cleo had had a headache that evening, and had returned to her stateroom after dinner. The water was rough, and few of the passengers remained on deck. Quite late in the evening, Tom went up. The sombre, silent figure of the Japanese was still there. He had not moved.
"Past eleven," Tom called out to him, and the gently modulated voice of the Japanese answered, "Yes; I will retire soon."