The Dark Star

"Very good, sir."

"Sure it's good! It's devilish good. Here's a beautiful and newly

minted gold sovereign. Isn't it artistic? It's yours, steward."

"Thanky, sir."

"Not at all. And, by the way, what's that invalid gentleman's name?"

"'Awks, sir."

"Hawks?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. 'Erbert 'Awks."

"American?"

"I don't know, sir."

"British?"

"Shall I inquire, sir?" starting to go.

"Not of him! Don't be a lunatic, steward! Please try to understand

that I want nothing said about this matter or about my inquiries."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. Herbert Hawks is. Find

out all you can concerning him. It's easy money, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, sir----"

"Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives on board?"

"Not that I know, sir."

"Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge skirts and white

shoes and stockings?"

"No, sir, not as I knows of."

"Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, and ask him if he

rang. And, if the door is opened, take a quick slant at the room."

"Very good, sir."

Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward cross the corridor

and knock at the door of Mr. Herbert Hawks.

"Well, what iss it?" came a heavy voice from within.

"Mr. 'Awks, sir, did you ring?"

"No, I did not."

"Oh, beg pardon, sir----"

The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but that young man

motioned him violently away from his door and closed it. Then,

listening, his ear against the panel, he presently heard a door in the

passage creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily.

He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. Hawks or his

fair friend in the white skirt had merely taken a preliminary survey

of the passage and perhaps also of his closed door. But the vigil was

vain; the door did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom across

the passageway.

To make certain that the owner of the white shoes and stockings did

not leave that stateroom without his knowledge, he opened his door

with many precautions and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber

band from knob to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in the

passage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his curtain, he sat

down to wait.

He had a book, one of those slobbering American novels which serve up

falsehood thickly buttered with righteousness and are consumed by the

morally sterilised.

And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he listened. One eye always

remained on duty; one ear was alert; he meant to see who was the owner

of the white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to find

out.