Late that night, Staff drifted into the smoking-room, which he found rather sparsely patronised. This fact surprised him no less than its explanation: it was after eleven o’clock. He had hardly realised the flight of time, so absorbed had he been all evening in argument with Alison Landis.

There remained in the smoking-room, at this late hour, but half a dozen detached men, smoking and talking over their nightcaps, and one table of bridge players—in whose number, of course, there was Mr. Iff.

Nodding abstractedly to the little man, Staff found a quiet corner and sat him down with a sigh and a shake of his head that illustrated vividly his frame of mind. He was a little blue and more than a little distressed. And this was nothing but natural, since he was still in the throes of the discovery that one man can hardly with success play the dual rÔle of playwright and sweetheart to a successful actress.

Alison was charming, he told himself, a woman incomparable, tenderly sweet and desirable; and he loved her beyond expression. But ... his play was also more than a slight thing in his life. It meant a good deal to him; he had worked hard and put the best that was in him into its making; and hard as the work had been, it had been a labour of love. He wasn’t a man to overestimate his ability; he possessed a singularly sane and clear appreciation of the true value of his work, harbouring no illusions as to his real status either as dramatist or novelist. But at the same time, he knew when he had done good work. And A Single Woman promised to be a good play, measured by modern standards: not great, but sound and clear and strong. The plot was of sufficient originality to command attention; the construction was clear, sane, inevitable; he had mixed the elements of comedy and drama with the deftness of a sure hand; and he had carefully built up the characters in true proportion to one another and to their respective significance in the action.

Should all this then, be garbled and distorted to satisfy a woman’s passion for the centre of the stage? Must he be untrue to the fundamentals of dramaturgic art in order to earn her tolerance? Could he gain his own consent to present to the public as work representative of his fancy the misshapen monstrosity which would inevitably result of yielding to Alison’s insistence?

Small wonder that he sighed and wagged a doleful head!

Now while all this was passing through a mind wrapped in gloomy and profound abstraction, Iff’s voice disturbed him.

“Pity the poor playwright!” it said in accents of amusement.

Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man stood before him, a furtive twinkle in his pale blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up, and they two were now alone in the smoking-room—saving the presence of a steward yawning sleepily and wishing to ’Eaven they’d turn in and give ’im a charnce to snatch a wink o’ sleep.

“Hello,” said Staff, none too cordially. “What d’ you mean by that?”

“Hello,” responded Iff, dropping upon the cushioned seat beside him. He snapped his fingers at the steward. “Give it a name,” said he.

Staff gave it a name. “You don’t answer me,” he persisted. “Why pity the poor playwright?”

“He has his troubles,” quoth Mr. Iff cheerfully, if vaguely. “Need I enumerate them, to you? Anyway, if the poor playwright isn’t to be pitied, what right ’ve you got to stick round here looking like that?”

“Oh!” Staff laughed uneasily. “I was thinking....”

“I flattered you to the extent of surmising as much.” Iff elevated one of the glasses which had just been put before them. “Chin-chin,” said he—“that is, if you’ve no particular objection to chin-chinning with a putative criminal of the d’p’st dye?”

“None whatever,” returned Staff, lifting his own glass—“at least, not so long as it affords me continued opportunity to watch him cooking up his cunning little crimes.”

“Ah!” cried Iff with enthusiasm—“there spoke the true spirit of Sociological Research. Long may you rave!”

He set down an empty glass.

Staff laughed, sufficiently diverted to forget his troubles for the time being.

“I wish I could make you out,” he said slowly, eyeing the older man.

“You mean you hope I’m not going to take you in.”

“Either way—or both: please yourself.”

“Ah!” said the little man appreciatively—“I am a deep one, ain’t I?”

He laid a finger alongside his nose and looked unutterably enigmatic.

At this point they were interrupted: a man burst into the smoking-room from the deck and pulled up breathing heavily, as if he had been running, while he raked the room with quick, enquiring glances. Staff recognised Mr. Manvers, the purser, betraying every evidence of a disturbed mind. At the same moment, Manvers caught sight of the pair in the corner and made for them.

“Mr. Ismay—” he began, halting before their table and glaring gloomily at Staff’s companion.

“I beg your pardon,” said the person addressed, icily; “my name is Iff.”

Manvers made an impatient movement with one hand. “Iff or Ismay—it’s all one to me—to you too, I fancy—”

“One moment!” snapped Iff, rising. “If you were an older man,” he said stiffly, “and a smaller, I’d pull your impertinent nose, sir! As things stand, I’d probably get my head punched if I did.”

“That’s sound logic,” returned Manvers with a sneer.

“Well, then, sir? What do you want with me?”

Manvers changed his attitude to one of sardonic civility. “The captain sent me to ask you if you would be kind enough to step up to his cabin,” he said stiltedly. “May I hope you will be good enough to humour him?”

“Most assuredly,” Iff picked up his steamer-cap and set it jauntily upon his head. “Might one enquire the cause of all this-here fluster?”

“I daresay the captain—”

“Oh, very well. If you won’t talk, my dear purser, I’ll hazard a shrewd guess—by your leave.”

The purser stared. “What’s that?”

“I was about to say,” pursued Iff serenely, “that I’ll lay two to one that the Cadogan collar has disappeared.”

Manvers continued to stare, his eyes blank with amazement. “You’ve got your nerve with you, I must say,” he growled.

“Or guilty knowledge? Which, Mr. Manvers?”

A reply seemed to tremble on Manvers’ lips, but to be withheld at discretion. “I’m not the captain,” he said after a slight pause; “go and cheek him as far as you like. And we’re keeping him waiting, if I may be permitted to mention it.”

Iff turned to Staff, with an engaging smile. “Rejecting the guilty knowledge hypothesis, for the sake of the argument,” said he: “you’ll admit I’m the only suspicious personage known to be aboard; so it’s not such a wild guess—that the collar has vanished—when I’m sent for by the captain at this unearthly hour.... Lead on, Mr. Manvers,” he wound up with a dramatic gesture.

The purser nodded and turned toward the door. Staff jumped up and followed the pair.

“You don’t mind my coming?” he asked.

“No—wish you would; you can bear witness to the captain that I did everything in my power to make Miss Landis appreciate the danger—”

“Then,” Iff interrupted suavely, “the collar has disappeared—we’re to understand?”

“Yes,” the purser assented shortly.

They scurried forward and mounted the ladder to the boat-deck, where the captain’s quarters were situated in the deckhouse immediately abaft the bridge. From an open door—for the night was as warm as it was dark—a wide stream of light fell athwart the deck, like gold upon black velvet.

Pausing en silhouette against the glow, the purser knocked discreetly. Iff ranged up beside him, dwarfed by comparison. Staff held back at a little distance.

A voice from within barked: “Oh, come in!” Iff and Manvers obeyed. Staff paused on the threshold, bending his head to escape the lintel.

Standing thus, he appreciated the tableau: the neat, tidy little room—commodious for a steamship—glistening with white-enamelled woodwork in the radiance of half a dozen electric bulbs; Alison in a steamer-coat seated on the far side of a chart-table, her colouring unusually pallid, her brows knitted and eyes anxious; the maid, Jane, standing respectfully behind her mistress; Manvers to one side and out of the way, but plainly eager and distraught; Iff in the centre of the stage, his slight, round-shouldered figure lending him a deceptive effect of embarrassment which was only enhanced by his semi-placating, semi-wistful smile and his small, blinking eyes; the captain looming over him, authority and menace incarnate in his heavy, square-set, sturdy body and heavy-browed, square-jawed, beardless and weathered face....

Manvers said: “This is Mr. Iff, Captain Cobb.”

The captain nodded brusquely. His hands were in his coat-pockets; he didn’t offer to remove them. Iff blinked up at him and cocked his small head critically to one side, persistently smiling.

“I’ve heard so much of you, sir,” he said in a husky, weary voice, very subdued. “It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Captain Cobb noticed this bit of effrontery by nothing more than a growl deep in this throat. His eyes travelled on, above Iff’s head, and Staff was conscious of their penetrating and unfriendly question. He bowed uncertainly.

“Oh—and Mr. Staff,” said Manvers hastily.

“Well?” said the captain without moving.

“A friend of Miss Landis and also—curiously—in the same room with Mr. Iff.”

“Ah,” remarked the captain. “How-d’-you-do?” He removed his right hand from its pocket and held it out with the air of a man who wishes it understood that by such action he commits himself to nothing.

Before Staff could grasp it, Iff shook it heartily. “Ah,” he said blandly, “h’ are ye?” Then he dropped the hand, thereby preventing the captain from wrenching it away, and averted his eyes modestly, thereby escaping the captain’s outraged glare.

Staff managed to overcome an impulse to laugh idiotically, and gravely shook hands with the captain. He had already exchanged a glance with the lady of his heart’s desire.

An insanely awkward pause marked Iff’s exhibition of matchless impudence. Each hesitated to speak while the captain was occupied with a vain attempt to make Iff realise his position by scowling at him out of a blood-congested countenance. But of this, Iff appeared to be wholly unconscious. When the situation seemed all but unendurable for another second (Staff for one was haunted by the fear that he would throw back his head and bray like a mule) Manvers took it upon himself to ease the tension, hardily earning the undying gratitude of all the gathering.

“I asked Mr. Staff to come and tell you, sir,” he said haltingly, “that I spoke to him about this matter the very night we left Queenstown—asked him to do what he could to make Miss Landis appreciate—”

“I see,” the captain cut him short.

“That is so,” Staff affirmed. “Unfortunately I had no opportunity until this afternoon—”

Alison interposed quietly: “I am quite ready to exonerate Mr. Manvers from all blame. In fact, he has really annoyed me with his efforts to induce me to turn the collar over to his care.”

“Thank you,” said Manvers bowing.

There was the faintest tinge of sarcasm in the acknowledgment. Staff could see that Alison felt and resented it; and the thought popped into his mind, and immediately out again, that she was scarcely proving herself generous.

“It’s a very serious matter,” announced the captain heavily—“serious for the service: for the officers, for the good name of the ship, for the reputation of the company. This is the second time a crime of this nature had been committed aboard the Autocratic within a period of eighteen months—less than that, in fact. It was June, a year ago, that Mrs. Burden Hamman’s jewels were stolen—on the eastbound passage, I believe.”

“We sailed from New York, June 22,” affirmed the purser.

“I want, therefore,” continued the captain, “to ask you all to preserve silence about this affair until it has been thoroughly sifted. I believe the knowledge of the theft is confined to those present.”

“Quite so, sir,” agreed the purser.

“May I ask how it happened?” Staff put in.

The captain swung on his heel and bowed to Alison. She bent forward, telling her story with brevity and animation.

“You remember”—she looked at Staff—“when we met in the saloon, about half-past five, and went on deck?... Well, right after that, Jane left my rooms to return the hat you had been showing me to your steward. She was gone not over five minutes, and she swears the door was locked all the time; she remembers locking it when she went out and unlocking it when she returned. There was no indication that anybody had been in the rooms, except one that we didn’t discover until I started to go to bed, a little while ago. Then I thought of my jewels. They were all kept in this handbag”—she dropped a hand upon a rather small Lawrence bag of tan leather on the table before her—“under my bed, behind the steamer trunk. I told Jane to see if it was all right. She got it out, and then we discovered that this had happened to it.”

She turned the bag so that the other side was presented for inspection, disclosing the fact that some sharp instrument had been used to cut a great flap out of the leather, running in a rough semicircle from clasp to clasp of the frame.

“It wasn’t altogether empty,” she declared with a trace of wonder in her voice; “but that only makes it all the more mysterious. All my ordinary jewels were untouched; nothing had been taken except the case that held the Cadogan collar.”

“And the collar itself, I hope?” Iff put in quietly.

The actress turned upon him with rising colour.

“You hope—!” she exclaimed.

The little man made a deprecatory gesture. “Why, yes,” he said. “It would seem a pity that a crook cute enough to turn a trick as neat as that should have got nothing for his pains but a velvet-lined leather case, worth perhaps a dollar and a half—or say two dollars at the outside, if you make a point of that.”

“How do you happen to know it was a velvet-lined leather case?” Alison flashed.

Iff laughed quietly. “My dear lady,” he said, “I priced the necklace at Cottier’s in Paris the day before you purchased it. Unfortunately it was beyond my means.”

“A bit thick,” commented the purser in an acid voice.

“Now, listen”—Iff turned to face him with a flush of choler—“you keep on that way and I’ll land on you if it’s the last act of my gay young life. You hear me?”

“That will do, sir!” barked the captain.

“I trust so, sincerely,” replied Iff.

“Be silent!” The captain’s voice ascended a full octave.

“Oh, very well, very well. I hear you—perfectly.” With this the little man subsided, smiling feebly at vacancy.

Staff interposed hastily, in the interests of peace: “The supposition is, then, that the thief got in during those five minutes that Jane was away from the room?”

“It couldn’t have happened at any other time, of course,” said Alison.

“And, equally of course, it couldn’t have happened then,” said Iff.

“Why not?” the woman demanded.

“The girl was gone only five minutes. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jane.

“And the door was locked—you’re positive about that?”

“Quite, sir.”

“Then will anyone explain how any thief could effect an entrance, pull a heavy steamer trunk out from under a bed, get at the bag, cut a slit in its side, extract the leather case—and the collar, to be sure—replace the bag, replace the trunk, leave the stateroom and lock the door, all in five short minutes—and without any key?” Iff wound up triumphantly: “I tell you, it couldn’t be done; it ain’t human.”

“But a skeleton-key—” Manvers began.

“O you!” said Iff with a withering glance. “The door to Miss Landis’ suite opens directly opposite the head of the main companionway, which is in constant use—people going up and down all the time. Can you see anybody, however expert, picking a lock with a bunch of skeleton-keys in that exposed position without being caught red-handed? Not on your vivid imagination, young man.”

“There may, however, be duplicate keys to the staterooms,” Alison countered.

“My dear lady,” said Iff, humbly, “there are; and unless this ship differs radically from others, those duplicate keys are all in the purser’s care. Am I right, Mr. Manvers?”

“Yes,” said Manvers sullenly.

“And here’s another point,” resumed Iff. “May I ask you a question or two, Miss Landis?” Alison nodded curtly. “You kept the handbag locked, I presume?”

“Certainly.”

“And when you found it had been tampered with, did you unlock it?”

“There wasn’t any need,” said Alison. “You can see for yourself the opening in the side is so large—”

“Then you didn’t unlock it?”

“No.”

“That only makes it the more mysterious. Because, you see, it’s unlocked now.”

There was a concerted movement of astonishment.

“How do you make that out, sir?” demanded the captain.

“You can see for yourself (to borrow Miss Landis’ phrase) if you’ll only use your eyes, as I have. The side clasps are in place, all right, but the slide on the lock itself is pushed a trifle to the left; which it couldn’t be if the bag were locked.”

There was a hint of derision in the little man’s voice; and his sarcastic smile was flickering round his thin lips as he put out one hand, drew the bag to him, lifted the clasps, and pushing back the lock-slide, opened it wide.

“The thot plickens,” he observed gravely. “For my part I am unable to imagine any bold and enterprising crook taking the trouble to cut open this bag when the most casual examination would have shown him that it wasn’t locked.”

“He might ’ve done it as a blind....” Manvers suggested.

“Officer!” piped Iff in a plaintive voice—“he’s in again.”

The purser, colouring to the temples, took a step toward the little man, his hands twitching, but at a gesture from the captain paused, controlled himself and fell back.

For a few moments there was quiet in the cabin, while those present digested Iff’s conclusions and acknowledged their logic irrefragable. Staff caught Alison staring at the man as if fascinated, with a curious, intense look in her eyes the significance of which he could not fathom.

Then the pause was brought to an end by the captain. He shifted his position abruptly, so that he towered over Iff, scowling down upon him.

“That will do,” he said ominously. “I’m tired of this; say what you will, you haven’t hoodwinked me, and you shan’t.”

“My dear sir!” protested Iff in amazement. “Hoodwink you? Why, I’m merely trying to make you see—”

“You’ve succeeded in making me see one thing clearly: that you know more about this robbery than you’ve any right to know.”

“Oh, you-all make me tired,” complained Iff. “Now you have just heard Miss Landis declare that this collar of pearls vanished between, say, five-thirty and five-forty-five. Well, I can prove by the testimony of three other passengers, and I don’t know how many more, to say nothing of your smoke-room stewards, that I was playing bridge from four until after six.”

“Ah, yes,” put in the purser sweetly, “but you yourself have just demonstrated conclusively that the robbery couldn’t have taken place at the hour mentioned.”

Iff grinned appreciatively. “You’re improving,” he said. “I guess that doesn’t get you even with me for the rest of your life—what?”

“Moreover,” Manvers went on doggedly, “Ismay always could prove a copper-riveted alibi.”

“That’s one of the best little things he does,” admitted Iff cheerfully.

“You don’t deny you’re Ismay?” This from the captain, aggressive and domineering.

“I don’t have to, dear sir; I just ain’t—that’s the answer.”

“You’ve been recognised,” insisted the captain. “You were on this ship the time of the Burden Hamman robbery. Mr. Manvers knows you by sight; I, too, recognise you.”

“Sorry,” murmured Iff—“so sorry, but you’re wrong. Case of mistaken identity, I give you my word.”

“Your word!” snapped the captain contemptuously.

“My word,” retorted Iff in a crisp voice; “and more than that, I don’t ask you to take it. I’ve proofs of my identity which I think will satisfy even you.”

“Produce them.”

“In my own good time.” Iff put his back against the wall and lounged negligently, surveying the circle of unfriendly faces with his odd, supercilious eyes, half veiled by their hairless lids. “Since you’ve done me the honour to impute to me guilty knowledge of this—ah—crime, I don’t mind admitting that I was a passenger on the Autocratic when Mrs. Burden Hamman lost her jewels; and it wasn’t a coincidence, either. I was with you for a purpose—to look out for those jewels. I shared a room with Ismay, and when, after the robbery, you mistook me for him, he naturally didn’t object, and I didn’t because it left me all the freer to prosecute my investigation. In fact, it was due to my efforts that Ismay found things getting too hot for him over in London and arranged to return the jewelry to Mrs. Hamman for an insignificant ransom—not a tithe of their value. But he was hard pressed; if he’d delayed another day, I’d ’ve had him with the goods on.... That,” said Iff pensively, “was when I was in the Pinkerton service.”

“Ah, it was?” said the captain with much irony. “And what, pray, do you claim to be now?”

“Just a plain, ordinary, everyday sleuth in the employ of the United States Secret Service, detailed to work with the Customs Office to prevent smuggling—the smuggling of such articles as, say, the Cadogan collar.”

In the silence that followed this astounding declaration, the little man hunched up his shoulders until they seemed more round than ever, and again subjected the faces of those surrounding him to the stare of his impertinent, pale eyes. Staff, more detached in attitude than any of the others present, for his own amusement followed the range of Iff’s gaze.

Captain Cobb was scowling thoughtfully. Manvers wore a look of deepest chagrin. Jane’s jaw had fallen and her eyes seemed perilously protrudant. Alison was leaning gracefully back in her chair—her pose studied but charmingly effective—while she favoured Iff with a scrutiny openly incredulous and disdainful.

“You say you have proofs of this—ah—assertion of yours?” demanded the captain at length.

“Oh, yes—surely yes.” Iff’s tone was almost apologetic. He thrust a hand between his shirt and waistcoat, fumbled a moment as if unbuttoning a pocket, and brought forth a worn leather wallet from which, with great and exasperating deliberation, he produced a folded paper. This he handed the captain—his manner, if possible, more than ever self-effacing and meek.

The paper (it was parchment) crackled crisply in the captain’s fingers. He spread it out and held it to the light in such a position that Staff could see it over his shoulder. He was unable to read its many closely inscribed lines, but the heading “Treasury Department, Washington, D.C.” was boldly conspicuous, as well as an imposing official seal and the heavily scrawled signature of the Secretary of the Treasury.

Beneath the blue cloth, the captain’s shoulders moved impatiently. Staff heard him say something indistinguishable, but of an intonation calculated to express his emotion.

Iff giggled nervously: “Oh, captain! the ladies—”

Holding himself very stiff and erect, Captain Cobb refolded the document and ceremoniously handed it back to the little man.

“I beg your pardon,” he said in a low voice.

“Don’t mention it,” begged Iff. He replaced the paper in his wallet, the wallet in his pocket. “I’m sure it’s quite an excusable mistake on your part, captain dear.... As for you, Mr. Manvers, you needn’t apologise to me,” he added maliciously: “just make your apologies to Captain Cobb.”