Andrew Bowers nodded.
“Do you think you succeeded?” Webster continued.
“I do not know, Mr. Webster. I hope so. If I did not—well, the instant this steamer drops anchor in the roadstead at San Buenaventura, she will be boarded and searched by the military police, I will be discovered and——” He shrugged.
“Lawn party in the cemetery, eh?” Webster suggested.
Andrew Bowers reached under his pillow and produced two heavy automatic pistols and a leathern box containing five clips of cartridges. These he exhibited in silence and then thrust them back under the pillow.
“I see, Andrew. In case you're cornered, eh? Well, I think I would prefer to die fighting myself. However, let us hope you will not have to face any such unpleasant alternative.”
“I'm not worried, Mr. Webster. Somehow, I think I ran the gauntlet safely.”
“But why did you throw your livery overboard?”
“It was of no further use to me. A chauffeur on shipboard would be most incongruous, and the sight of the livery hanging on yonder peg would be certain to arouse the curiosity of the room steward. And I'm not going to appear on deck throughout the voyage, might meet somebody who knows me.”
“But you'll have to have some clothes in which to go ashore, you amazing man.”