He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it:
“James Neeland,
“S. S. Volhynia.
“Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on your complaint.
“Naïa.”
With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to Ilse Dumont.
“Scheherazade,” he said, “you’ll be a good little girl, now, won’t you? Because it would be a shocking thing for you and your friend across the way to land in England wearing funny bangles on your wrists and keeping step with each other, wouldn’t it?”
She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at it long after she had finished reading it and the words became a series of parallel blurs. 212
“Scheherazade,” he said lightly, “what on earth am I going to do with you?”
“I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain against me,” she replied in even tones.
“Why not? You deserve it, don’t you? You and your humorous friend with the yellow beard?”