"Elsie of Shanghai," said the purser in an undertone. "Sold out and going home."
"Ah," murmured Evans with a lifting of his brows. "Knew her from her pictures. They're in every conceivable place."
"She has played 'the game' for all there was in it," answered the purser.
"Say, Moore," and Evans' voice was serious, "we've picked up a rotter here all right." The purser glanced up inquisitively. "Lavelle of the Yakutat's aboard."
"Wrong, sir. Can't be. Why—that fellow's dead, Mr. Evans. Died out East here somewhere. Saw it in the home papers only a little while ago."
"He's not dead by a long shot. He's aboard here."
"There's no Lavelle on the passenger list."
"That means nothing," and Evans described Whitridge.
"Why, that man's name's Whitridge—an Englishman."
"Well, he's Lavelle."