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cupboard and taking out a bottle of Black-and-White; when the boy tapped on the door he said, “Tell Andrews to bring some soda.”
    â€œHe’s ashore, Sir.”
    â€œIs Mr. Harris on board?”
    â€œYessir—I think so, Sir.”
    â€œThen tell him I want some soda, please.”
    â€œYessir.”
    There was something about the slow formality of Captain Blyth’s manner of speaking to his ship’s company which was to impress Julia throughout the trip; it began to impress her that first evening when Mr. Harris, who was the chief steward, appeared and said apologetically that Andrews must have gone off with the keys, and he could only find one bottle of soda, which he had borrowed off Mr. Reeder. All Captain Blyth said was—“Thank you. Get some.”
    â€œIn port, things slow down a bit. The men all like to get ashore, and of course drinks aren’t served till we get outside territorial waters,” he said, bringing the whisky and soda over to where Julia sat on one of the sofas, and setting them on a table fixed to the bulkhead at her side. “Now, tell me how you like this.”
    The time passed pleasantly—Julia’s lingering vexation gradually melted away under the Captain’s slow, cheerful chat. He had a flat, quiet manner and spoke in a gentle, flat voice. He himself liked gin, he said, proceeding to drink it; the agents in the ports mostly liked whisky, and you wouldn’t believe how much they would drink; moreover they liked to sit up all night, whereas he, himself, hated staying up late, unless he had to be on the bridge, which was a different thing. He expressed a courteous hope that Julia would be comfortable, and mentioned various people in Tangier who always came out on his ship—“come time after time, the Watsons do. He’s a nice man, Mr. Watson—and she’s nice, too.”
    Mr. Scales proved to be a very young man, to Julia’s surprise; when she was arranging her passage he had contrived on the telephone to sound almost paternal. When the boy announced him Captain Blyth said, “Oh, I must give you your pass,” in his soft voice, and sat down at his desk and unlocked a drawer—everything in his cabin seemed always to be being unlocked and locked again.
    â€œPass? whatever for?” asked Julia curiously.
    â€œCan’t get into the docks at night without. There. Hope you enjoy yourself.” He came out with her along the deck to the gangway. “Sorry everything’s in a bit of a mess—clean up when we get to sea,” he said. “Don’t slip, now—that’s awkward, that gangway is.”
    It took Mr. Scales and his small car, caught up in the evening jam of westbound traffic from the City, rather a long time to transport Julia to the discreet club, mostly peopled by women twice her age, for which Mrs. Hathaway had put her up; Mr. Consett was waiting for her, the porter said. Unhurried, Julia went in and found him sitting in the big chintzy drawing-room, reading
Antiquity.
    â€œI’m sorry I’m late—the traffic in the City was awful, and my penitent didn’t drive very well,” she said.
    â€œI’ve not been here long. Who is your penitent, and why?” asked Mr. Consett, locking
Antiquity
away in a black brief-case with the royal cypher on it.
    â€œA
very
incompetent young man—will you have whisky or a Martini?—A Martini and a tomato-juice, please,” said Julia to the severe elderly waitress, “and we’re not dining here.”
    â€œGoodness, Julia, what an ant-heap this place is!” Mr. Consett said in a lowered tone as the waitress moved away, glancing round at the other occupants of the room.
    â€œWell, yes. But the drinks are reasonably good.”
    â€œA very incompetent young man’ you were saying,” Mr. Consett prompted her.
    â€œYes, in the shipping office.” She related Mr. Scales’s crime.