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CHAPTER I

Outside the door of the Purser’s cabin, Chief Steward Ogilvie hesitated, glancing quickly at the lists in his hand before tapping discreetly on the polished wood. From inside the cabin a voice gruffly bade him come in. The Purser looked up frowning, but his face cleared when he saw who it was and his thin, sardonic lips twisted into a smile.

“Ah, Ogilvie! ”

“I’ve the list for the Captain’s Table, sir.” Ogilvie leaned forward and placed the sheet of paper on the desk. He had a quick, nervous manner which, the Purser thought, looking at him, was deceptive. Ogilvie was a young man for the position he held but he was extremely capable, a strict and ruthless disciplinarian and well aware of his own worth. His diffident politeness was a habit, a legacy from pre-war days when he had been a footman in ducal service.

“I thought, sir—” Ogilvie began. “In view of Captain Blair’s— er—” He stopped, flushing a little under his tan.

The Purser regarded him thoughtfully from behind the heavy horn-rimmed glasses which gave his broad, red face its oddly benevolent appearance, belying the cynical smile.

He said: “Yes?” in a tone that discouraged confidences and Ogilvie, practised in the art of reading his fellow men and studying the foibles of his superiors, assumed a politely blank expression and replied woodenly: “I have been led to understand, sir, by the Captain’s own steward, Rickaby, that Captain Blair prefers to take most of his meals in his own quarters, rather than in the dining saloon, sir.”

The Purser’s raised eyebrows were the only sign of surprise he gave and his grunt was noncommittal. He gave his attention to the list, struck out one name and substituted another and then looked up at the steward inquiringly.

“Who is this Miss Catherine Duncan you have down?” His pencil was poised above the name.

Ogilvie said deferentially: “Miss Duncan represented Great Britain in the Winter Olympics at Oslo, Mr. Forbes. At ski-ing. I understand from Rickaby, sir, that Captain Blair—”

“Is interested in winter sports, I take it,” John Forbes put in dryly. He returned the list to the steward. “Very well, Ogilvie. You seem to have displayed your usual efficiency— it’s a very tactful choice. But I think we’ll need to put Lady Carter at the First Officer’s table, if the Captain isn’t going to take many meals in the saloon—she likes asking questions.”

“Yes, sir.” Ogilvie presented the other lists, his sleek dark head bent over the desk as he added Lady Carter’s name to the top one. “With your approval, Mr. Forbes, I thought Sir Harper Gillis should also be placed at the First Officer’s table.”

“Oh, why? He’s a surgeon, isn’t he? Surely the Doctor’s table would be more suitable?”

“Quite, sir. That was what I thought at first, too, sir.” Ogilvie never argued. “But you see, sir, it appears that Sir Harper isn’t— er— a qualified medical practitioner in the accepted sense. He’s what is known as a homeopath, sir, and a manipulative surgeon. A very distinguished gentleman indeed, sir but all the same, I thought, under the circumstances, that the First Officer’s table would perhaps be the better choice.”

Again the Purser grunted, but this time it was an approving grunt. He leafed through the other lists rapidly and returned to the first. “I see. Who’s this Colonel Urquhart you’ve put at the Captain’s Table?”

“He’s a young gentleman, sir. A rubber planter, booked to Penang. I thought it would round off the table, sir. Miss Duncan is young and Miss Hope-Scott. Lady Hope-Scott is the widow of Sir Jasper Hope-Scott, sir, who was a recent Governor-General. I could hardly put her at any other table, sir, could I? And the son is an M.P.”

“Quite. Now what about my table, Ogilvie?”

There was a smile on Ogilvie’s lips. “I think you’ll find it—interesting, sir.”

The Purser ran his eye over the list.

“Right.” He gathered up the papers and passed them to the attentive Ogilvie. “You’ve done very well. Thank you, Ogilvie.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ogilvie’s smile was a trifle smug, his dignified inclination of the head almost a bow. The Purser watched his departure with irritated amusement. The fellow was almost too good at his job, a mine of information about the passengers already and the Pilot was still on the bridge, the long voyage scarcely begun. As the door closed softly behind him, the Purser sighed. He wondered, as he always did at the start of each trip, how things would go, whether the voyage, as far as the passengers were concerned, would be pleasantly uneventful or the reverse. But most of all he wondered, a little resentfully, how the Claymore new Master would justify the Company’s faith in him—even whether he would justify the unprecedented rapidity of his elevation to the command of what was regarded, by all its officers, as the finest of the Company’s ships. It was unusual, to say the least of it, to take a very junior commander from one of the smaller freighters and appoint him, over the heads of a dozen others, to the command of a 20,000-ton passenger liner.

Officially, of course, the appointment was temporary. Captain Blair had been brought in as a stop-gap, to take the place of Captain Maitland, taken so suddenly and tragically ill on the eve of sailing.

But—and John Forbes sighed again and reached for his pipe—whatever his war record, whatever his ability as a seaman, Blair wasn’t a liner officer and never had been. He wasn’t going to find it easy. Passengers, as he had learnt, in twenty years’ experience of them, were the devil if you didn’t know how to handle them. And taking all his meals in his own quarters, as, it seemed, Captain Blair planned to do, would not endear the Claymore’s new Master to her passengers.

The Captain’s Table had come to be a tradition on board the Claymore, the centre of the ship’s social life, with distinguished passengers counting themselves honoured by the invitation to sit there.

It would be different this voyage and, under the circumstances, Ogilvie’s choice had been wise—the First Officer would have to deputise, socially at any rate, for the man who had superseded him.

His pipe alight, the Purser picked up the duplicate list which Ogilvie had left for him and once again he frowned over the name of Catherine Duncan. It seemed odd for a ship’s master to be interested in winter sports—and then he remembered. There’d been a brother, years younger than Captain Blair, who’d made quite a name for himself as a climber, until he’d been killed in the Swiss Alps last year. In that case, perhaps Ogilvie hadn’t been as tactful as he had thought him. Captain Blair would not want to be reminded of the tragedy. Forbes half rose and then subsided. Time enough to alter it, should it seem advisable. The first night, people sat anywhere they liked and no one changed and, in any case, a copy of the list would be submitted to the Captain for his approval.

Ogilvie stood outside the Captain’s day cabin at that moment, the list in his hand. His knock was perfunctory, for he knew that the Captain was on the bridge and likely to remain there for at least another hour. Rickaby, the Captain’s personal steward, admitted him.

Rickaby, like Captain Blair, had come from the freighter Cormorant, where he had enjoyed a position of much greater responsibility than he could possibly expect to hold in the Claymore but, if he were aware of this fact, it did not appear to be worrying him. He was a small, apple-cheeked man, of uncertain age, with a pair of shrewd grey eyes, a ready smile and a strong Glasgow accent. He welcomed the Chief Steward with courtesy but without awe, and Ogilvie, recognising the man’s self-assurance, as well as his usefulness, greeted him as an equal, his tone friendly.

“I’ve brought the list for the Captain’s table,” he announced. “If you’d be so good as to find out if he approves of it for me.”

Rickaby took the list. “Aye, I’ll dae that, Muster Ogilvie.” He was unpacking, his officer’s uniform jackets over his arm. Ogilvie glimpsed the ribbons of the D.S.O. and the D.S.C. on one of them and was impressed by these and, even more, by the unmistakable cut of the jacket and the quality of the cloth.

He fingered it, naming a well-known naval outfitter, and Rickaby grinned. “Oh, aye! Captain Blair thinks there’s nae-body tae touch them. He’ll go to nae other body and has not, all the time I’ve known him. Which is just about thirteen years.”

“You were with him during the war?” Ogilvie asked curiously.

“Aye, maist of the time I was.” Rickaby did not enlarge on this and the Chief Steward, recalled to the many and various duties he had yet to perform by the sight of a handsome travelling clock on the Captain’s desk, started towards the door, when his eyes lit on a framed photograph, which stood beside the clock, and he halted. It was of a young man, dressed in ski-ing kit, the peaked cap set at a jaunty angle, to reveal a face of striking intelligence and charm. He stood looking at it and Rickaby, following his gaze, said soberly:

“Yon’s his brother. He was killed last year, in Switzerland.”

“I think I read about it, in the papers. I remember this photograph, it was in the Mirror, wasn’t it? But—” the Chief Steward was puzzled. “Was his name not Kistler? And was he not studying to be a doctor?”

“You’ve a good memory, Muster Ogilvie, for ye’re perfectly right Muster Kistler was Captain Blair’s half-brother. A good deal younger, ye’ll understand. Verra attached tae him, the Captain was. It was a sad blow when the laddie was killed.”

Ogilvie murmured something conventional and took his leave. He prided himself upon his memory, which was like a card index. He seldom forgot a name or a face, but now something was puzzling him. Somewhere, quite recently, he had seen that photograph of the Captain’s young halfbrother, though, at the time, since he had not connected it with Captain Blair, he had done no more than register the fact that it was a duplicate of the one published in the newspapers at the time of the boy’s tragic death. Now he racked his brains but could not recall where it was he had seen it, though he could remember that it had been in a leather travelling frame. Walking briskly in the direction of the dining saloon, past the gleaming, white-painted doors of the cabins on B Deck, Ogilvie stood aside to permit a passenger to enter his cabin and, as the door swung inwards, he remembered where he had seen the photograph.

It had been soon after the Claymore had sailed and he had glimpsed it through the half-open door of one of the cabins, though which cabin, even which deck, he had no idea. But it had been a woman’s, for, besides the photograph, his brain had registered the fact that a woman’s dressing-case had stood, opened, somewhere near it.

It was an odd coincidence. And when it was added to the fact that the First Officer had made the suggestion that Miss Catherine Duncan should be seated at the Captain’s table, it became even more odd. Unless, of course, the photograph he’d seen had been in her cabin. That would be it. That would account for Mr. Morley’s suggestion. Ogilvie was smiling as he entered the dining saloon. He liked to think that his tables were well arranged.

CHAPTER II

Catherine Duncan had been allotted a two-berth cabin on the starboard side of B Deck. Starboard and amidships. She was not an experienced sailor and was pleased to find her cabin so well situated. She had been fortunate in this, if not —she made a rueful grimace at herself in the mirror—in her cabin-mate, who, having come on board early, had purloined most of the available space, as well as the lower berth.

So far, all that Catherine knew about her was her name— Dr. L. R. Grant, which was boldly emblazoned on the expensive pigskin suitcases scattered so untidily about the cabin—and the fact that she was travelling to Hong Kong, Catherine’s own destination.

Friends had come to see her off and Catherine had stayed with them, on deck, until the last possible minute, dreading the parting. She hadn’t felt like lunch and had done her unpacking whilst her cabin-mate was in the dining saloon, finding a sheltered corner on deck afterwards, where she had remained until disturbed by lifeboat drill. And now, judging by the chaos, her unknown companion had gone to bath and intended, on her return, to change into the attractive, flowered-silk afternoon dress which hung from the rail of Catherine’s bunk. If the dress were anything to go by, Dr. Grant was tall, slim and possessed of a very adequate income. The dress was a French model and Catherine could only guess at its price. A soft knock at the door heralded the stewardess, a buxom, pleasant-faced woman with a mass of dark, wavy hair. She came in smiling.

“You’ll be Miss Duncan? I’ve been looking for you but you weren’t here when I was in before. What time would you like your morning tea, Miss Duncan?”

Catherine returned the smile. “When can I have it?” she asked.

“Any time at all from six forty-five. The other lady asked for hers at seven thirty.”

“Then that will suit me, thank you, stewardess.”

The stewardess made a note in the small pocket diary she carried.

“You shall have it. Breakfast is from eight until nine thirty. Now, is there anything you would like?” Catherine shook her head and the stewardess went on: “You’re a wee bit crowded in here, are you not? I’ll ask Dr. Grant if we can send some of these cases down to the baggage room, for you’ll not be able to move with so many cluttering up the place. No doubt by to-morrow she will have been able to unpack them—”

The cabin door was flung open and a tall, fair-haired girl of about Catherine’s own age, wrapped in a pale-blue quilted silk dressing-gown, came thrusting past the stewardess with a brief apology, to halt at the sight of Catherine and stand regarding her with unconcealed interest.

“So you’re the elusive Miss Duncan? I must say, I’ve been having the horrors, wondering what you’d be like. I mean, when one’s going to have to share a tiny cabin for weeks on end with a completely strange female, one does rather worry, doesn’t one?” Her smile robbed her words of any intention to offend. “I do hope you don’t snore?”

“No,” said Catherine, laughing. “I don’t think so.”

“Good, then that nightmare is disposed of.” She turned to the stewardess. “I know what you’re going to say—you want me to get rid of some of these suitcases, don’t you? Well, I would, honestly, if I could find anywhere to put my things when I’d unpacked them. But there simply isn’t, is there? The cupboards are absolutely crammed as it is and I’m afraid I’ve taken up some of Miss Duncan’s hanging space, as well as my own. They ought to provide more cupboards on these ships.”

“All my other ladies seem to find them quite adequate, Doctor,” the stewardess said severely. “But the baggage room will be open daily during the voyage, except on Sundays, so I think you’ll need to let the steward take some of them down for you to-morrow morning.”

She did not wait for the fair-haired girl’s reply.

When the door closed behind her, Dr. Grant made a face.

“Too, too governessy, isn’t she? Oh, well, I’ll have to see what I can do to-morrow. Tie a string from your bunk to the porthole and hang some of my things from that, I suppose. There doesn’t appear to be anywhere else I can put them.” She dumped her wet bath-towel on the wash-basin and flung herself full length on her bunk, reaching for a packet of cigarettes on the shelf above her head. “Smoke?”

“I don’t think I will just now,” Catherine answered, getting up to pass her the only ashtray the cabin boasted.

“Thanks. I say, I hope you don’t mind my pinching the lower berth? I suppose I really ought to have tossed you for it or something equally Lower Fourth, but I’m the most appalling sailor and anyway, when I did stake my claim, I hadn’t met you, so of course I hadn’t the least compunction in doing it. But if you object violently, I’m quite prepared to toss you for it.”

Catherine’s lips twitched. She was beginning to change her mind about her travelling companion. Dr. Grant was possessed of a sense of humour and a great deal of charm and she felt, despite the untidiness, she was going to enjoy her company. A long voyage, in her present state of dull misery, was something she had been dreading and had to force herself to face. When she had made her decision, it had seemed the best—if not the only—thing to do, to make a clean break, to get right away from all the torturing, familiar things which had made up her world and Hugh’s. She had stayed for the Winter Olympics—that was something she owed Hugh and could not refuse to do but, now that they were over, there was nothing to keep her in England.

Hugh was dead. It was no use brooding. And her father wanted her. He was lonely, too.

From force of habit, Catherine looked over to the dressing-table and then remembered, with a pang, that she had put Hugh’s photograph back in her suitcase. She hadn’t wanted to answer questions about him, should her cabinmate prove inquisitive. For perhaps the hundredth time, the torturing, never-to-be-answered questions came, unbidden, into her mind.

Had Hugh’s death been an accident? Had the rumours, the whispers she had heard, on her return to Switzerland after his funeral, been true? He had been so very skilled and experienced a climber. Why had he fallen where he had? Had he fallen deliberately? And that letter his half-brother had written her...had the accusations in that been true? The cruel, bitter accusations which had hurt her so much... no, no! They weren’t true.

Catherine got up quickly as tears pricked at her eyes. She must stop thinking about it, stop torturing herself. Hugh had loved her, she need have no doubts about that. He’d asked her to marry him. She went blindly over to the wash-basin, removed Dr. Grant’s towel, and, her back to its owner, ran water into the basin and started to mop at her eyes.

From the bunk, Dr. Grant watched her idly, inhaling smoke.

She asked again: “You really don’t mind?”

Catherine reached for her own towel. “Mind?” she echoed. “What about?”

“About the bunks. About my grabbing this one.”

“No, of course I don’t, Dr. Grant.”

“Look here—” the other girl raised herself on one elbow, to regard Catherine with blue, friendly eyes. “Don’t you think, since we’re going to live together, we might start the way we mean to go on? Be friends and all that. It’s absurd for us to address each other so formally. My name’s Leonie.”

“And mine is Catherine.”

“Good Lord!” Leonie sat right up. For an instant she looked startled, even a little taken aback. “You aren’t the Catherine Duncan, are you? The ski-ing champion? But of course, you must be! How stupid of me. I thought your face seemed vaguely familiar. I’ve seen you on television, including that simply fantastic jump you made at Oslo. I was quite breathless with admiration. But—” she hesitated. “You’re going to Hong Kong, aren’t you? You won’t get any ski-ing there, it’s quite the wrong part of the world.”

“I know.” Catherine’s voice was quite steady. “That was the general idea. I’m giving it up. My father lives in Hong Kong—he’s with Lloyd Anstruther’s. I’m going out to keep house for him.”

“Oh, I see.” Leonie sounded embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to pump you or anything like that. It was just that it seemed so odd, your going to Hong Kong, when you’re an Olympic skier. One doesn’t somehow imagine a winter sports enthusiast of your calibre on board a ’slow boat to China,’ does one? Though obviously they must sometimes do it, without one realising, I mean. Oh heavens—I’m putting this awfully badly, aren’t I?” She was talking for the sake of talking, Catherine noticed, with some astonishment.

Leonie avoided her glance, swinging her long, shapely legs to the cabin floor. “I suppose it’s time I got dressed, if dinner’s at eight. Are you going to change?”

“I didn’t think we had to, the first night. But if you’re going to—” Catherine’s mental review of her wardrobe was discouraging. She had nothing to match the Dior afternoon dress. Still, there was her green woollen one. It was fairly new and it suited her. She went to the tiny wardrobe and took it out. “What about this?”

“It’s very attractive, with your colouring,” Leonia agreed politely. Her eyes were on Catherine’s face, a gleam of something more than interest in their cool, blue depths. Then she lowered her gaze, picked up a pair of gossamer thin stockings and drew them on. From amongst the scattered suitcases she selected one and started to rummage about inside it, finally bringing to light a pair of red shoes of unmistakably French design.

“Oh, thank goodness! I simply never remember where I put things when I pack.” She left the suitcase where it was, not troubling to close it, and carried the shoes triumphantly over to her bunk.

There was a short silence. Catherine broke it. “Do you like being a doctor?” Curiosity prompted the question. She could not, somehow, visualise this exquisite, expensively-dressed girl amongst sick and suffering people. In a hospital, for instance, where the unwashed poor came for treatment.

Leonie, busy making up her face in front of the cabin’s only mirror, shrugged. “I do, rather,” she confessed. As if she had read Catherine’s thoughts, she added, “I’m a pathologist, you know. I don’t come in contract with patients any more than I can help. Actually, I never wanted to study medicine. I only did it to please my father. He’s a Harley Street surgeon and was frightfully disappointed when I turned out a girl, instead of the son he’d wanted.” She laughed. “So I thought I’d show him, and after the first couple of years I got quite interested in medicine for its own sake. I’ve just had a year in Basle under Professor Liebermann.”

Her gaze met Catherine’s again, direct and searching, but, when Catherine said nothing, she went on casually: “I don’t suppose that means a thing to you. In his own particular field, Liebermann is brilliant and I enjoyed working with him but, mind you, it was work. I couldn’t have stood more than a year of it. All work and no play isn’t my idea of the way life should be lived.” She lit a fresh cigarette, drew on it and left it smoking in the ashtray as she slipped into the beautiful, shimmering dress.

From a loudspeaker a gong boomed.

“Dinner,” said Leonie cheerfully, “I say, could you be a dear and zip me up? Thanks awfully.”

Catherine did as she was asked and then hastily sat down in the chair her companion had vacated to attend to her hair. Leonie leaned across to retrieve her cigarette.

“I believe it’s a sort of free for all, the first night. Let’s sit together, shall we? Then, if we can pick out some people who look as if they might be amusing, we could see the Chief Steward about getting a table all together. Do you know anyone else on board?”

Catherine shook her head. “Not a soul. Do you?”

Leonie led the way out of the cabin and they joined a short queue for the descent to the next deck. “No,” she called back, over her shoulder. “But it doesn’t take long, on board ship.”

The dining saloon was about half full when they reached it. Leonie, after a quick, speculative look round, chose a table for four on the port side, which was empty.

“They all look simply deadly,” she whispered. “I think we’ll just sit here on our own and see what turns up.”

A steward whisked a menu in front of her and she ordered soup. Catherine followed her example. They were half through their second course when the steward pulled out the two vacant chairs and a middle-aged couple, with polite, fixed smiles on their dull, uninteresting faces, sat down and, throughout the meal, talked to each other in irritating undertones. Leonie’s smile was rueful.

“Not one of my better ideas,” she remarked. “Never mind, we’ll have coffee in the verandah cafe and pump the steward. Do you play bridge, Catherine?”

Catherine Hesitated. “Not awfully well,” she admitted. “I do play, but that’s about all. Anyway, if you’re keen, don’t worry about me. I’ve got masses of books and I like reading. In fact I’ve been promising myself that I’d use this enforced leisure to get up-to-date with my reading.”

Leonie rose. “I see everyone’s seeing about places—” she motioned towards the crowd of passengers round a table, where the Chief Steward sat, a plan of the dining saloon in front of him and a pile of place cards beside him. “Perhaps we’d better or we may find ourselves stuck with those two again.”

They joined the milling crowd, Catherine, very conscious of the fact that Leonie had not troubled to lower her voice, meeting the resentful glances of their late table companions apologetically.

When their turn came, the Chief Steward asked politely: “Your name, madam?”

Leonie answered for them both. “We’d like to sit together,” she added, her tone persuasive. “And, steward, please put us with some amusing people—if you’ve got any!”

Ogilvie looked up. “You’re Miss Duncan, madam? The Captain would be very honoured if you would sit at his table—”

“I’m not Miss Duncan,” Leonie said, with a slight edge to her voice. “I’m Dr. Leonie Grant.” She turned to Catherine, her smile wry. “The penalties of fame, Catherine! You’re to sit with the elite, whilst I am undoubtedly to be relegated to the fifth or sixth engineer’s table, aren’t I, steward?”

“I put you down provisionally for the Senior Surgeon’s table, madam,” Ogilvie said quickly. “But if you would prefer to sit anywhere else, it could be arranged.”

Leonie held out her hand for the place card. “No, thanks. That will do.”

She turned on her heel, leaving Catherine to wait for her card.

Ogilvie gave it to her, smiling. “It’s a privilege to have you on board, Miss Duncan. I think you will find the company at your table entertaining.”

Catherine thanked him and, embarrassed by the stares which this little exchange had drawn in her direction, hurried out after Leonie Grant, whom she found on the deck above, talking to a tall, handsome man with greying hair, in the uniform of a ship’s officer. Seeing Catherine she waved.

“The Senior Surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Alfree. Dr. Alfree, this is Miss Catherine Duncan, who is sharing a cabin with me and of whom I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Indeed I have.” The doctor held out his hand. “We all followed your progress at the Winter Olympics with interest, Miss Duncan. I’ve persuaded Dr. Grant to join me for coffee and then we’re going to see if we can find a bridge four. I do hope you’ll come with us, though I understand you’re not keen on bridge?”

Catherine started to excuse herself but the doctor brushed aside her excuses and escorted the two girls up to A Deck and then up another companionway, barred by a notice saying: “Ship’s Officers Only.”

“Far be it from me to tell tales out of school,” the doctor said. “But we’ll have our coffee in my quarters—it’ll be much better coffee.”

An alert, white-coated steward stood at the head of the companionway and to him Dr. Alfree gave a brisk order. The man opened the door of a cabin bearing a metal plate with “Senior Surgeon” engraved on it, and stood aside to allow them to pass.

It was a spacious cabin, containing, besides the single bunk, a desk, two armchairs and a low table, on which piles of illustrated papers were neatly arranged.

Leonie looked about her in amazement. “I say, what luxury! I should obviously have applied for a post as ship’s doctor, instead of travelling as a passenger.”

Dr. Alfree laughed. “The reward for my twenty years of service. Surely you would not begrudge me that? After all, this is my home, for fifty weeks out of fifty-two.” He indicated the armchairs, drawing out his office chair for himself. “Do sit down. Help yourselves to cigarettes—they’re in that box at your elbow, Miss Duncan. Actually, we rather pride ourselves on the way this ship is fitted out. She was a troopship during the latter part of the war and they took nearly a year, after it was over, to refurbish her for passenger service. Made a wonderful job of it—no expense spared. You should see my sick bay—in fact, you shall. It’s the finest I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a few.” He talked on about the ship until the steward came in with a laden tray.

“My compliments to the First Officer, Huggins, and ask him if he’d care to step along for coffee.” He turned to his guests. “I’m sure you’d like to meet Mr. Morley. He’s been with the Claymore longer than I have. In fact longer than any of us, with the exception of the Captain. That is, our late Captain, whom I had to rush into hospital three days ago, Dr. Grant, with a cerebral haemorrhage. A very tragic case. No one had the faintest idea of his condition, least of all himself. I found him in his cabin and—oh, well, these things happen. But one hates them happening to one’s friends.” He rose to pour the coffee, his pleasant, goodlooking face clouded. “How d’you like it? Black? White? Sugar?” He passed the cups and returned to his seat. “Have you two been out East before?”

Both girls shook their heads and Catherine said: “I was born in Hong Kong but I don’t think that counts, because I hardly remember it.”

The doctor started to talk about the pleasures that were in store for them when there was a knock on the door and the steward reappeared.

“Yes, Huggins?”

“I’m sorry, sir, the First Officer’s with the Captain. I’ll give him your message as soon as he’s free, shall I sir?”

“No, don’t bother, lad. We’ll be going below in a few minutes.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man went out and after a little more conversation Dr. Alfree glanced at his watch. “I think if we’re going to pick up a four, young lady, we’d better go, or all the good players will have been snapped up. I suppose you won’t change your mind and play with us, Miss Duncan?”

Catherine smilingly refused. “You wouldn’t thank me if I did, Dr. Alfree. I’m the world’s worst bridge player. And anyway, I think I’ll have an early night.”

“Right, then I won’t try to persuade you.” The doctor opened the door of his cabin and motioned Catherine to precede him. She stepped out into the narrow passage almost into the arms of a dark-haired man, on whose sleeves three straight gold stripes gleamed dully in the light from an unshaded bulb. He murmured an inaudible apology and went on without a backward glance. Catherine was shocked by the look of savage fury she surprised on his thin, dark face and stifled an involuntary cry. Glancing behind her, she saw the doctor’s smooth brow crease into a frown and realised that he, too, had noticed the other man’s expression but, after the barest possible hesitation, he said nothing and ushered them down to the lounge. Here, however, he introduced Leonie to some other passengers and excused himself.

“I’m awfully sorry, there’s something I’ll have to see to before I can play. You make up a four, I’ll come and cut in later, if I may.”

Catherine, going on deck for a breath of air before retiring, saw his tall figure disappearing up the companionway leading to the officers’ quarters and instinct told her that his sudden change of plan had something to do with the man with whom she had collided. The First Officer, presumably, the one he’d wanted them to meet. It was no business of hers, she told herself and, after three brisk circuits of the deck, she went below to her cabin.

CHAPTER III

Dr. Alfree found the First Officer in his cabin. The anger had faded from Morley’s face, leaving it as white as chalk and oddly strained. He looked up as the doctor entered, forcing a smile which held less of amusement than pain.

“Hullo, Ted. Drink?” He had a glass in his hand. Whiskey in a decanter, glasses and a jug of water stood on the table beside him.

“Thanks,” said Alfree briefly, his eyes, shrewd and kindly, on the other’s face. He thought that Morley looked older than he had ever seen him look and, liking and understanding the man, was worried. He knew Morley’s temper, the devil of bitterness which rode him. He said, gently: “I saw you just now, Dick. You’ll have to watch your step, you know.”

Morley’s lips tightened, became a tense, bitter line.

“Do we have to talk about it?” he asked.

The doctor sat down, crossing one long, blue-clad leg over the other. “Not if you don’t want to, of course,” he agreed, with unruffled good humour. “Though sometimes it helps. You know that anything you say to me won’t go any further.”

Morley’s expression softened. “Yes, I know. But—” He gulped his drink, refilled his glass and came to perch himself on the arm of a chair, looking down at his friend. “I’m painfully aware that I’m a failure, that I haven’t made the grade and never will. I’d almost got used to it. With Maitland in command, it didn’t matter, he never made me feel it. We got on well together—respected each other and I suppose, really, that you and I were the closest friends he had. His collapse was a—a blow to me, and that’s putting it mildly, personal feelings apart. I didn’t honestly expect to be put in his place, even temporarily, though if it had happened at sea, I should have been. Still—” he shrugged.

Sympathetically, Alfree offered his cigarette case, but the First Officer shook his head.

“No, thanks. Ted, d you have any idea what it means in—in humiliation to have Blair brought in over my head like this? He was an apprentice when I was a fully fledged watchkeeper! I’m ten years senior to him, there are fifty names between us in the Navy list. In my worst nightmares I never dreamed they’d appoint Blair to the command of Claymore. When there are masters like Franklin and Creedy and Macpherson available, one simply doesn’t visualise the possibility! Does one?”

“No,” the doctor confessed, gazing at the glowing tip of his cigarette with seemingly absorbed attention. “I certainly didn’t, I must admit. In fact, even now, I can’t think why he got the appointment. What’s his pull?”

“A sensational war record. And then his rescue of the passengers and crew of that American hospital ship that struck a mine off Osaka. You remember how the Press, especially the American Press, went into hysterics over it. Blair’s been lucky and he’s made the most of it. Even so, whilst I don’t question his ability, or his seamanship or his courage, I do question his being chosen for this command in preference to say Franklin or Creedy. And—which is purely personal, I question my own ability to stick him as commander.”

Morley got up and began restlessly to pace the cabin. His voice was harsh as he want on: “We had quite a session this evening. I’m afraid I lost my temper. He wasn’t exactly — tactful. Not that he has to be, but— oh God, Ted, there are some things a man can’t take, you know. I’m a damned fool, I suppose. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“It’s always a mistake,” the doctor said.

Anger flickered in Morley’s dark eyes for a moment but he controlled himself with a visible effort and said quietly: “Yes. Ted, give me some pheno-barbitone or something, for the Lord’s sake. I’m going to need it.”

The doctor crushed out his cigarette. “I’ll do anything I can, old man.” He finished his drink and put the glass down with an air of finality. “I should turn in, if I were you—it’s surprising what a good night’s sleep will do. I had a couple of the passengers for coffee this evening,” he added, changing the subject. “Sent Huggins to ask you to join us but you were with the Captain. Two very charming girls. One’s at my table, a woman doctor who looks much too ornamental to be useful, and the other is Catherine Duncan, the Olympic ski-ing champion, also very nice-looking and—”

“Who?” The First Officer demanded hoarsely. “Who did you say?”

Dr. Alfree regarded him with some surprise. “Catherine Duncan,” he repeated. “She’s sitting at the Captain’s Table, I believe.”

Richard Morley’s eyes narrowed. “At the Captain’s Table? Good. Ogilvie took my hint then. I told him I thought Captain Blair would be interested to meet her.”

“You thought Captain Blair would be interested to meet her?” the doctor echoed. “Do you know her then?”

“I know of her,” Morley said slowly. “My cousin chaperoned a party of Olympic ski-ing hopes to St. Moritz last year, Catherine Duncan amongst them. It will be interesting to see Captain Blair’s reaction when he meets her.”

His tone held a vague menace which puzzled the doctor.

Alfree said: “From what the Purser tells me, it’ll be some time before he does, Dick. Ogilvie, who is almost infallible, as you know, has told him that Captain Blair intends to take most of his meals in his own quarters. I rather gathered that your table is to be the centre of the social scene this voyage. Perhaps you’d better tell Ogilvie to change Miss Duncan to your table.”

“No,” said the First Officer decidedly. “I shan’t do that.”

Alfree stared at him in exasperation. “What is all this?” he demanded. “What connection has Catherine Duncan with Captain Blair?”

Morley smiled. He looked almost cheerful. “As far as I know they’ve never met, but he’ll know who she is all right. You see, she was engaged to his half-brother, the one who was killed in Switzerland last year. The climber, Kistler. You may have read about it in the papers, it created rather a sensation. The boy was training for the Everest expedition.” His smile widened. “I imagine that Captain Blair will be quite keen to make the girl’s acquaintance, in view of the —circumstances.”

The doctor opened his mouth to question him further but Morley led him towards the door, a hand on his arm. “Off you go and get your game of bridge, Ted. I’m going to take your advice and turn in.”

Alfree was still puzzled but he made no protest as Morley ushered him out of the cabin.

“I’ll send some pills along by Huggins,” he offered.

“Thanks,” said Morley briefly. “Good night.”

The Claymore ploughed on down the Channel.