When Staff went below a little later, he was somewhat surprised to find his stateroom alight,—surprised, because he had rather expected that Mr. Iff would elect to sleep off his potations in darkness.

To the contrary, the little man was very much awake, propped up in his berth with a book for company, and showed no effects whatever of overindulgence, unless that were betrayed by a slightly enhanced brightness of the cool blue eyes which he brought to bear upon his roommate.

“Good morning!” he piped cheerfully. “What on earth got you up so early? The bar’s been closed an hour and more.”

“Is that why you came to bed?” enquired Staff.

“Sure,” agreed Mr. Iff complacently.

Staff quietly began to shed his clothing and to insert his spare frame into pajamas. Iff lay back and stared reflectively at the white-painted overhead girders.

“Got to slip it to you,” he observed presently, “for perfect mastery of the dignified reserve thing. I never knew anybody who could better control his tumultuous emotions.”

“Thanks,” said Staff drily as he wound up his watch.

“Anything ’special troubling you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You talk so darn much.”

“Sorry if I’m keeping you awake,” said Staff politely.

“Oh, I don’t mean to seem to beef about it, only ... I was wondering if by any chance you’d heard the news?”

“What news?”

“About me.”

“About you!” Staff paused with his fingers on the light-switch.

“About my cute little self. May I look now?” Iff poked his head over the edge of the upper berth and beamed down upon Staff like a benevolent, blond magpie. “Haven’t you heard the rumour that I’m a desperate character?”

“Just what do you mean?” demanded Staff, eyeing the other intently.

“Oh, simply that I overheard the purser discussing me with his assistant. He claims to recognise in me a bold bad man named Ismay, whose specialty is pulling off jobs that would make Sherlock Holmes ask to be retired on a pension.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you Ismay?”

A broad, mocking grin irradiated the little man’s pinched features. “Don’t ask me,” he begged: “I might tell you.”

Staff frowned and waited a minute, then, receiving no further response to his enquiry, grunted “Good night,” turned off the light and got into his berth.

A moment later the question came out of the darkness overhead: “I say—what do you think?”

“Are you Iff or Ismay—you mean?”

“Aye, lad, aye!”

“I don’t know. It’s for you to say.”

“But if you thought I was Ismay you’d shift quarters, wouldn’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because I might pinch something of yours.”

“In the first place,” said Staff, yawning, “I can’t shift without going into the second cabin—and you know it: the boat’s full up. Secondly, I’ve nothing you could steal save ideas, and you haven’t got the right sort of brains to turn them to any account.”

“That ought to hold me for some time,” Iff admitted fairly. “But I’m concerned about your sensitive young reputation. Suppose I were to turn a big trick this trip?”

“As for instance—?”

“Well, say I swipe the Cadogan collar.”

“Then I’d stand just so much the better chance of catching you red-handed.”

“Swell notion you’ve got of the cunning of the Twentieth Century criminal, I must say. D’ you for an instant suppose my work’s so coarse that you could detect grits in it?”

“Then you are Ismay?”

“My son,” said the other solemnly, “your pertinacity shan’t go unrewarded: I will be frank with you. You shall know all. I am Iff—the eternal question.”

“Oh, go to thunder!” said Staff indignantly.

But as he slipped off to sleep he could hear the man overhead chuckling quietly, beneath his breath....

The next few days would have provided him with ample opportunity in which to ponder the question of his roommate’s identity, had Staff chosen so to occupy his time. As it happened, Heaven was kind to the young man, and sent a gale of sorts, which, breaking upon the Autocratic the following morning, buffeted her for three days and relegated to their berths all the poor sailors aboard, including the lady with the pink soul and underthings. Of Mrs. Thataker, indeed, Staff saw nothing more until just before the vessel docked in New York. He wasn’t heartless by any manner of means; he was, as a matter of fact, frankly sorry for the other poor passengers; but he couldn’t help feeling there was a lot of truth in the old saw about an ill wind....

Otherwise the bad weather proved annoying enough in several ways. To begin with, Alison Landis herself was anything but a good sailor, and even Miss Searle, though she missed no meals, didn’t pretend to enjoy the merciless hammering which the elements were administering to the ship. Alison retired to her suite immediately after the first breakfast and stuck religiously therein until the weather moderated, thus affording Staff no chance to talk with her about the number of immediately interesting things on his mind. While Miss Searle stayed almost as steadily in her quarters, keeping out of harm’s way and reading, she told Staff when they met at meals. Mrs. Ilkington, of course, disappeared as promptly as Mrs. Thataker. In consequence of all of which, Staff found himself thrown back for companionship on Bangs, who bored him to the point of extinction, Arkroyd, whom he didn’t like, and Iff, who kept rather out of the way, dividing his time between his two passions and merely leering at the younger man, a leer of infinite cunning and derision, when chance threw them together.

In despair of finding any good excuse for wasting his time, then, Mr. Staff took unto himself pens, ink, paper and fortitude and—surprised even himself by writing that fourth act and finishing his play. Again—an ill wind!

And then, as if bent on proving its integral benevolence so far as concerned Mr. Staff, the wind shifted and sighed and died—beginning the operation toward sundown of the third day out from Queenstown. The morning of the fourth day dawned clear and beautiful, with no wind worth mentioning and only a moderate sea running—not enough to make much of an impression on the Autocratic. So pretty nearly everybody made public appearance at one time or another during the morning, and compared notes about their historic sufferings, and quoted the stewardess who had been heard to say that this was the worst westbound passage the boat had ever made, and regained their complexions, and took notice of the incipient flirtations and—well, settled down in the usual way to enjoy an ocean voyage.

Staff, of course, was on deck betimes, with an eye eager for first sight of Alison and another heedful of social entanglements which might prevent him from being first and foremost to her side when she did appear. But for all his watchfulness and care, Mrs. Ilkington forestalled him and had Alison in convoy before Staff discovered her; and then Arkroyd showed up and Mrs. Ilkington annexed him, and Bangs was rounded up with one or two others and made to pay court to Mrs. Ilkington’s newly snared celebrity and ... Staff went away and sulked like a spoiled child. Nor did his humour become more cheerful when at lunch he discovered that Mrs. Ilkington had kept two seats at their table reserved for Miss Landis and Arkroyd. It had been a prearranged thing, of course; it had been Alison with whom Mrs. Ilkington had talked about him in Paris; and evidently Alison had been esquired by Arkroyd there. Staff didn’t relish the flavour of that thought. What right had Arkroyd to constitute himself Alison’s cavalier on her travels? For that matter, what right had Alison to accept him in such a capacity?... Though, of course, Staff had to remind himself that Alison was in reality not bound in any way....

But he had his reward and revenge after lunch. As the party left the table Alison dropped behind to speak to him; and in interchange of commonplaces they allowed the others to distance them beyond earshot.

“You’re a dear,” the young woman told him in a discreet tone as they ascended the companionway.

“I’m bound to say,” he told her with a faint, expiring flicker of resentment, “that you hardly treat me like one.”

Her eyes held his with their smiling challenge, half provocative, half tender; and she pouted a little, prettily. In this mood she was always quite irresistible to Staff. Almost against his will his dignity and his pose of the injured person evaporated and became as if they had never been.

“Just the same,” she declared, laughing, “you are a dear—if you don’t deserve to be told so.”

“What have I done?” he demanded guiltily—knowing very well on what counts he was liable to indictment.

“Oh, nothing,” said Alison—“nothing whatever. You’ve only been haughty and aloof and icy and indifferent and everything else that men seem to consider becoming to them when they think they’re neglected.”

“You certainly don’t expect me to like seeing Arkroyd at your side all the time?”

“Oh!” she laughed contemptuously—“Arkroyd!” And she dismissed that gentleman with a fine sweeping gesture. “Can I help it if he happens to travel on the same ship?”

They halted at the top of the steps.

“Then it was accidental—?” he asked seriously.

“Staff!” The young woman made an impatient movement. “If I didn’t like you—you know how much—upon my word I’d snub you for that. You are a bear!”

“A moment ago I was a dear.”

“Oh, well, I’m fond of all sorts of animals.”

“Then I advise your future husband to keep you away from zoos.”

“Oh, Staff! But wouldn’t you want me to come to see you once in a while?”

He jerked up one hand with the gesture of a man touched in a fencing-bout. “You win,” he laughed. “I should’ve known better....”

But she made her regard tender consolation for his discomfiture. “You haven’t told me about the play—our play—my play?”

“It’s finished.”

“Not really, Staff?” She clasped her hands in a charmingly impulsive way. He nodded, smiling. “Is it good?”

“You’ll have to tell me that—you and Max.”

“Oh—Max! He’s got to like what I like. When will you read it to me?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“This afternoon?”

“If you like.”

“Oh, good! Now I’m off for my nap—only I know I shan’t sleep, I’m so excited. Bring the ’script to me at two—say, half-past. Come to my sitting-room; we can be alone and quiet, and after you’ve finished we can have tea together and talk and—talk our silly heads off. You darling!”

She gave him a parting glance calculated to turn any man’s head, and swung off to her rooms, the very spirit of grace incarnate in her young and vigorous body.

Staff watched her with a kindling eye, then shook his head as one who doubts—as if doubting his own worthiness—and went off to his own stateroom to run over the type-script of his fourth act: being fortunate in having chosen a ship which carried a typist, together with almost every other imaginable convenience and alleged luxury of life ashore.

Punctual to the minute, manuscript under his arm, he knocked at the door of the sitting-room of the suite de luxe occupied by the actress. Her maid admitted him and after a moment or two Alison herself came out of her stateroom, in a wonderful Parisian tea-gown cunningly designed to render her even more bewilderingly bewitching than ever. Staff thought her so, beyond any question, and as unquestionably was his thought mirrored in his eyes as he rose and stood waiting for her greeting—very nearly a-tremble, if the truth’s to be told.

Her colour deepened as she came toward him and then, pausing at arm’s length, before he could lift a hand, stretched forth both her own and caught him by the shoulders. “My dear!” she said softly; and her eyes were bright and melting. “My dear, dear boy! It’s so sweet to see you.” She came a step nearer, stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his cheek with her lips.

“Alison ...!” he cried in a broken voice.

But already she had released him and moved away, with a lithe and gracious movement evading his arms. “No,” she told him firmly, shaking her head: “no more than that, Staff. You mustn’t—I won’t have you—carry on as if we were children—yet.”

“But Alison—”

“No.” Again she shook her head. “If I want to kiss you, I’ve a perfect right to; but that doesn’t give you any licence to kiss me in return. Besides, I’m not at all sure I’m really and truly in love with you. Now do sit down.”

He complied sulkily.

“Are you in the habit of kissing men you don’t care for?”

“Yes, frequently,” she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; “I’m an actress—if you’ve forgotten the fact.”

He pondered this, frowning. “I don’t like it,” he announced with conviction.

“Neither do I—always.” She relished his exasperation for a moment longer, then changed her tone. “Do be sensible, Staff. I’m crazy to hear that play. How long do you mean to keep me waiting?”

He knew her well enough to understand that her moods and whims must be humoured like a—well, like any other star’s. She was pertinaciously temperamental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are so, for the most part—invariably so, if on the stage. That kind of temperament is part of an actress’ equipment, an asset, as much an item of her stock in trade as any trick of elocution or pantomime.

So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in hand and prepared to make the best of the situation. With a philosophic shrug and the wry, quaint smile so peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take up his manuscript; but in the very act, remembering, withheld it.

“Oh, I’d forgotten ...”

“What, my dear?” asked Alison, smiling back to his unsmiling stare.

“What made you send me that bandbox?” he demanded without further preliminary; for he suspected that by surprising the author of that outrage, and by no other method, would he arrive at the truth.

But though he watched the woman intently, he was able to detect no guilty start, no evidence of confusion. Her eyes were blank, and a little pucker of wonder showed between her brows: that was all.

“Bandbox?” she repeated enquiringly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient air, “the thing you bought at Lucille’s, the day before we sailed, and had sent me without a word of explanation. What did you do it for?”

Alison relaxed and sat back in her chair, laughing softly. “Dear boy,” she said—“do you know?—you’re quite mad—quite!”

“Do you mean to say you didn’t—?”

“I can’t even surmise what you’re talking about.”

“That’s funny.” He pondered this, staring. “I made sure it was you. Weren’t you in London last Friday?”

“I? Oh, no. Why, didn’t I tell you I only left Paris Saturday morning? That’s why we had to travel all day to catch the boat at Queenstown, you know.”

He frowned. “That’s true; you did say so.... But I wish I could imagine what it all means.”

“Tell me; I’m good at puzzles.”

So he recounted the story of the bandbox incognito, Alison lending her attention with evident interest, some animation and much quiet amusement. But when he had finished, she shook her head.

“How very odd!” she said wonderingly. “And you have no idea—?”

“Not the least in the world, now that you’ve established an alibi. Miss Searle knows, but—”

“What’s that?” demanded Alison quickly.

“I say, Miss Searle knows, but she won’t tell.”

“The girl who sat next to Bangs at lunch?”

“Yes—”

“But how is that? I don’t quite understand.”

“Oh, she says she was in the place when the bandbox was purchased—saw the whole transaction; but it’s none of her affair, says she, so she won’t tell me anything.”

“Conscientious young woman,” said Alison approvingly. “But are you quite sure you have exhausted every means of identifying the true culprit? Did you examine the box yourself? I mean, did you leave it all to the housemaid—what’s her name—Milly?”

He nodded: “Yes.”

“Then she may have overlooked something. Why take her word for it? There may be a card or something there now.”

Staff looked startled and chagrined. “That’s so. It never occurred to me. I am a bonehead, and no mistake. I’ll just take a look, after we’ve run through this play.”

“Why wait? Send for it now. I’d like to see for myself, if there is anything: you see, you’ve roused a woman’s curiosity; I want to know. Let me send Jane.”

Without waiting for his consent, Alison summoned the maid. “Jane,” said she, “I want you to go to Mr. Staff’s stateroom—”

“Excuse me,” Staff interrupted. “Find the steward named Orde and ask him for the bandbox I gave him to take care of. Then bring it here, please.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jane; and forthwith departed.

“And now—while we’re waiting,” suggested Alison—“the play, if you please.”

“Not yet,” said Staff. “I’ve something else to talk about that I’d forgotten. Manvers, the purser—”

“Good Heavens!” Alison interrupted in exasperation. She rose, with a general movement of extreme annoyance. “Am I never to hear the last of that man? He’s been after me every day, and sometimes twice a day.... He’s a personified pest!”

“But he’s right, you know,” said Staff quietly.

“Right! Right about what?”

“In wanting you to let him take care of that necklace—the what-you-may-call-it thing—the Cadogan collar.”

“How do you know I have it?”

“You admitted as much to Manvers, and Mrs. Ilkington says you have it.”

“But why need everybody know about it?”

“Enquire of Mrs. Ilkington. If you wanted the matter kept secret, why in the sacred name of the great god Publicity did you confide in that queen of press agents?”

“She had no right to say anything—”

“Granted. So you actually have got that collar with you?”

“Oh, yes,” Alison admitted indifferently, “I have it.”

“In this room?”

“Of course.”

“Then be advised and take no chances.”

Alison had been pacing to and fro, impatiently. Now she stopped, looking down at him without any abatement of her show of temper.

“You’re as bad as all the rest,” she complained. “I’m a woman grown, in full possession of my faculties. The collar is perfectly safe in my care. It’s here, in this room, securely locked up.”

“But someone might break in while you’re out—”

“Either Jane is here all the time, or I am. It’s never left to itself a single instant. It’s perfectly ridiculous to suppose we’re going to let anybody rob us of it. Besides, where would a thief go with it, if he did succeed in stealing it—overboard?”

“I’m willing to risk a small bet he’d manage to hide it so that it would take the whole ship’s company, and a heap of good luck into the bargain, to find it.”

“Well,” said the woman defiantly, “I’m not afraid, and I’m not going to be browbeaten by any scare-cat purser into behaving like a kiddie afraid of the dark. I’m quite competent to look after my own property, and I purpose doing so without anybody’s supervision. Now let’s have that understood, Staff; and don’t you bother me any more about this matter.”

“Thanks,” said Staff drily; “I fancy you can count on me to know when I’m asked to mind my own business.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that—not that way, dear boy—but—”

At this juncture the maid entered with the bandbox, and Alison broke off with an exclamation of diverted interest.

“There! Let’s say no more about this tiresome jewel business. I’m sure this is going to prove ever so much more amusing. Open it, Jane, please.”

In another moment the hat was in her hands and both she and Jane were giving passably good imitations—modified by their respective personalities—of Milly’s awe-smitten admiration of the thing.

Staff was conscious of a sensation of fatigue. Bending over, he drew the bandbox to him and began to examine the wrappings and wads of tissue-paper which it still contained.

“It’s a perfect dear!” said Miss Landis in accents of the utmost sincerity.

“Indeed, mum,” chimed Jane, antiphonal.

“Whoever your anonymous friend may be, she has exquisite taste.”

“Indeed, mum,” chanted the chorus.

“May I try it on, Staff?”

“What?” said the young man absently, absorbed in his search. “Oh, yes; certainly. Help yourself.”

Alison moved across to the long mirror set in the door communicating with her bedroom. Here she paused, carefully adjusting the hat to her shapely head.“Now, sir!” she exclaimed, turning.

Staff sat back in his chair and looked his fill of admiration. The hat might have been designed expressly for no other purpose than to set off this woman’s imperious loveliness: such was the thought eloquent in his expression.

Satisfied with his dumb tribute, Alison lifted off the hat and deposited it upon a table.

“Find anything?” she asked lightly.

“Not a word,” said he—“not a sign of a clue.”

“What a disappointment!” she sighed. “I’m wild to know.... Suppose,” said she, posing herself before him,—“suppose the owner never did turn up after all?”

“Hum,” said Staff, perturbed by such a prospect.

“What would you do with it?”

“Hum,” said he a second time, non-committal.

“You couldn’t wear it yourself; it’s hardly an ornament for a bachelor’s study. What would you do with it?”

“I think,” said Staff, “I hear my cue to say: I’d give it to the most beautiful woman alive, of course.”

“Thank you, dear,” returned Alison serenely. “Don’t forget.”

She moved back to her chair, humming a little tune almost inaudibly; and in passing lightly brushed his forehead with her hand—the ghost of a caress.

“You may go, Jane,” said she, sitting down to face her lover; and when the maid had shut herself out of the room: “Now, dear, read me our play,” said Alison, composing herself to attention.

Staff took up his manuscript and began to read aloud....

Three hours elapsed before he put aside the fourth act and turned expectantly to Alison.

Elbow on knee and chin in hand, eyes fixed upon his face, she sat as one entranced, unable still to shake off the spell of his invention: more lovely, he thought, in this mood of thoughtfulness even than in her brightest animation.... Then with a little sigh she roused, relaxed her pose, and sat back, faintly smiling.

“Well?” he asked diffidently. “What do you think?”

“It’s splendid,” she said with a soft, warm glow of enthusiasm—“simply splendid. It’s coherent, it hangs together from start to finish; you’ve got little to learn about construction, my dear. And my part is magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show what I can do with comedy. I’m delighted beyond words. But ...” She sighed again, distrait.

“But—?” he repeated anxiously.

“There are one or two minor things,” she said with shadowy regret, “that you will want to change, I think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing important enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of it all.”

“But tell me—?”

“Oh, it’s hardly worth talking about, dear boy. Only—there’s the ingenue rÔle; you’ve given her too much to do; she’s on the stage in all of my biggest scenes, and has business enough in them to spoil my best effects. Of course, that can be arranged. And then the leading man’s part—I don’t want to seem hypercritical, but he’s altogether too clever; you mustn’t let him overshadow the heroine the way he does; some of his business is plainly hers—I can see myself doing it infinitely better than any leading man we could afford to engage. And those witty lines you’ve put into his mouth—I must have them; you won’t find it hard, I’m sure, to twist the lines a bit, so that they come from the heroine rather than the hero....”

Staff held up a warning hand, and laughed.

“Just a minute, Alison,” said he. “Remember this is a play, not a background for you. And with a play it’s much as with matrimony: if either turns out to be a monologue it’s bound to be a failure.”

Alison frowned slightly, then forced a laugh, and rose. “You authors are all alike,” she complained, pouting; “I mean, as authors. But I’m not going to have any trouble with you, dear boy. We’ll agree on everything; I’m going to be reasonable and you’ve got to be. Besides, we’ve heaps of time to talk it over. Now I’m going to change and get up on deck. Will you wait for me in the saloon, outside? I shan’t be ten minutes.”

“Will I?” he laughed. “Your only trouble will be to keep me away from your door, this trip.” He gathered up his manuscript and steamer-cap, then with his hand on the door-knob paused. “Oh, I forgot that blessed bandbox!”

“Never mind that now,” said Alison. “I’ll have Jane repack it and take it back to your steward. Besides, I’m in a hurry, stifling for fresh air. Just give me twenty minutes....”

She offered him a hand, and he bowed his lips to it; then quietly let himself out into the alleyway.