Who Goes There!

This letter he sealed, addressed, and laid aside.

He then wrote to the American Consulate, addressing the note to the Consul and Vice-Consul, saying that he committed to their care —

1st. A letter to be called for immediately by the British Consul in person, and so marked.

2d. A packet addressed to the British Consul, but not to be delivered until a week had expired.

3d. A letter to be sent to the United States Consul General in London with all speed.

4th. A telegram to be sent to Edmeston Automobile Agency in London.

5th. A letter to the same agency.

He then wrote out his telegram, wondering whether the United States Consul could put it through:

Edmeston Agency,

White Hood Lane,

London, E. C.

Business of instant importance requires you all to leave for Holland immediately. Lose no time.

    Signed – Rider.

Holland Line S. S. Feyenoord.

The letter was directed to the Edmeston Agency:

Dear Sirs:

Grätz and Bush must leave at once if they wish to enjoy the fishing here. The pike are biting. Four have been caught. The shooting, also, is excellent. Eight birds were killed yesterday. If Grätz and Bush do not leave within a week business in London is likely to detain them indefinitely and they will miss their holiday with little chance for another.

Tell them to take the urgent advice of a sportsman and clear out while they have the chance.

    Yours with good intentions,
    D. Brown Satchell

While Guild was busy writing and consigning what he had written to separate envelopes, he was aware of considerable movement and noise outside on deck – the passing to and fro of many people, whistle blasts from other craft – in fact, all the various species of bustle and noise which, aboard any steamer, indicate its approach to port.

He raised his head and tried to see, but it was still raining and the air was dull with fog.

Passengers, stewards, and officers came and went, passing through the writing-room where he sat in a corner sorting and sealing his letters. Twice, glancing up over his shoulder, he noticed a steward cleaning up, dusting and arranging the pens, ink, and writing paper on the several tables near by – one of those too busy and officious functionaries whose zeal for tips usually defeats its own ends.

And so it happened this time, for, as Guild, intent on what he was writing, reached out absently for another envelope, a package of them was thrust into his hand with a bustling, obsequious – "Paper, sir! Yes, sir" – Beg pardon, sir! I'm sorry!" – For somehow the inkwell had been upset and the pile of letters scattered over the floor.

"Damn it!" said Guild savagely, springing back to avoid the streaming ink.

The steward appeared to be overwhelmed; down he flopped on his knees to collect the letters, hopping up at intervals to sop the flowing flood of ink from the desk.

Guild took the letters from him grimly, counted the sealed envelopes, then without a word went to the neighbouring desk, and, sitting down there, wrote on the last sealed envelope not yet addressed – the envelope which contained the cipher code, translation, and the information concerning the Edmeston Company. When he had written on it: "To be delivered to the British Consul in a week," he gathered all the letters, placed them in his breast pocket, buttoned his coat, and went out. For half an hour he walked to and fro under the shelter of the roofed deck, glancing absently across the rail where there was nothing to see except grey mist, grey water, and rain.

After he had enough of this he went below.

Karen was not in the cabin, but her luggage stood there beside his own.

He had plenty of time to make a decent toilet; he bathed, shaved, chose fresh linen, brushed his wrinkled tweeds as thoroughly as he could, then, leaving the luggage there he went away in search of Karen with a view to breakfast.

He found her on the starboard deck very comfortably established. The idiot deck steward who had upset his ink-well and scattered his letters was serving her obsequiously with marmalade.

As Guild approached Karen looked up at him coolly enough, though a bright colour surged into her face. The steward bustled away to find more coffee and rolls.

"Do you feel rested at all?" asked Guild pleasantly.

"Yes, thank you."

"May I take the next chair and have breakfast with you?"

"Yes, please."

He seated himself. She said nothing, ate nothing. Suddenly it occurred to him that in her quaint way she was waiting for his breakfast to appear before beginning her own.

"You are not waiting for me, are you?" he asked. "Don't do that; everything will be cold."

With an odd air of old-fashioned obedience, which always seemed to make her more youthful to him, she began her breakfast.

"We'll be docking presently," he remarked, glancing out into the fog and thinly falling rain.

"Yes."

He lay back in his chair, not caring for her monosyllables, but good-humouredly receptive in case she encouraged conversation.

Neither the freshness of her clothes nor of her skin seemed to have suffered from the discomforts of the night; her hair was lustrous and crisply in order. From her hat-crown to the palms of her gloves rolled back over her wrists, she seemed to have just left the hands of a clever maid, so fresh, sweet, fragrant and immaculate she appeared to him, and he became uncomfortably conscious of his knickerbockers and badly wrinkled tweeds.

The same fool of a steward brought his coffee. And as Karen offered no encouragement to conversation he breakfasted beside her in silence.

Afterward he lighted a cigarette, and they both lay back on their steamer chairs watching the fog and the drizzle and the promenading passengers who all appeared to be excited at the approaching process of docking and over the terrible episode of the previous night.

In all languages it was being discussed; Guild could catch fragments of conversation as groups formed, passed, and repassed their chairs.

Another thing was plain to him; Karen had absolutely nothing to say to him, and apparently no further interest in him.

From time to time he looked at the pure profile which never turned in response. Self-possessed, serene, the girl gazed out into the fog as though she were quite alone on deck. Nor did there seem to be any effort in her detached interest from her environment. And Guild wondered in his depressed heart whether he had utterly and hopelessly killed in her the last faint glimmer of friendly interest in him.

The docking of the Feyenoord in the fog interested him very little; here and there a swaying mast or a black and red funnel loomed up in the fog, and the air was full of characteristic noises – that is all he saw or heard where he lay silent, brooding on fate and chance and on the ways of a woman in the pride of her youth.

The idiot steward reappeared and Guild sent him below for their luggage.