Nicholson got to it. With another unbrotherly glance at the steward he nipped out of the cabin and sped towards the glory hole. The evil-faced lad attempted an air of insouciance. He even called after Nicholson, “Search ’ard, me bucky. I’ve already expressed me willingness.”
The lady who had been so ready to accuse proved herself more than ready to apologize. Her method of apology was lavish, but particularly unsatisfactory to the evil-faced steward. It was one long hymn of hate concerning the steward. His feelings grew more and more disturbed as the minutes passed.
He was confident it was all right, it was bound to be all right, he told himself. He’d been most careful. Nothing could go wrong with ’im. Nothing ... or anyhow, he thought nothing could go wrong with him. He saw no reason for feeling scared ... but....
Nicholson came into the cabin.
Nicholson looked wisely at Clement; with resignation at his superior officer; with a certain touch of cheeriness at the evil-faced steward.
He lifted his right hand. He opened it. Something flamed and flashed.
“My tiara,” screamed the lady.
“In the pocket of this,” said Nicholson, lifting up a steward’s white jacket.
“My coat—my oath,” blurted the evil-faced steward.
There was no doubt about it. That dirty coat with its yellow stain—probably rust—on its arm and shoulder was unmistakable. Everybody recognized it. Clement Seadon had never forgotten it, in fact.