“Where is the stewardess, then?” I asked.

“They all go off duty at ten o’clock.”

“No⁠—I mean the night stewardess.”

“No stewardess on at night, miss.”

“But⁠—but a stewardess came the other night⁠—about one o’clock.”

“You must have been dreaming, miss. There’s no stewardess on duty after ten.”

He withdrew and I was left to digest this morsel of information. Who was the woman who had come to my cabin on the night of the 22nd? My face grew graver as I realized the cunning and audacity of my unknown antagonists. Then, pulling myself together, I left my own cabin and sought that of Mrs. Blair. I knocked at the door.

“Who’s that?” called her voice from within.

“It’s me⁠—Anne Beddingfeld.”

“Oh, come in, gipsy girl.”

I entered. A good deal of scattered clothing lay about, and Mrs. Blair herself was draped in one of the loveliest kimonos I had ever seen. It was all orange and gold and black and made my mouth water to look at it.

“ Mrs. Blair,” I said abruptly, “I want to tell you the story of my life⁠—that is, if it isn’t too late, and you won’t be bored.”

“Not a bit. I always hate going to bed,” said Mrs. Blair, her face crinkling into smiles in the delightful way it had. “And I should love to hear the story of your life. You’re a most unusual creature, gipsy girl. Nobody else would think of bursting in on me at 1 a.m. to tell me the story of their life. Especially after snubbing my natural curiosity for weeks as you have done! I’m not accustomed to being snubbed. It’s been quite a pleasing novelty. Sit down on the sofa and unburden your soul.”

I told her the whole story. It took some time as I was conscientious over all the details. She gave a deep sigh when I had finished, but she did not say at all what I had expected her to say. Instead she looked at me, laughed a little and said:

“Do you know, Anne, you’re a very unusual girl? Haven’t you ever had qualms?”

“Qualms?” I asked, puzzled.