The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously flattened head⁠—it all gave me a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.

Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I overheard a fragment or two. “I’ll see about the cabin at once then, shall I? It’s impossible to work in yours, with all your trunks.”

“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (a) for me to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.”

“That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to work⁠ ⁠…”

Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.