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Fourteen
(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
I
t was on the night of the Fancy Dress dance that I decided that the time had come for me to
confide in someone. So far I had played a lone hand and rather enjoyed it. Now suddenly
everything was changed. I distrusted my own judgement and for the first time a feeling of
loneliness and desolation crept over me.
I sat on the edge of my bunk, still in my gipsy dress, and considered the situation. I
thought first of Colonel Race. He had seemed to like me. He would be kind, I was sure. And
he was no fool. Yet, as I thought it over, I wavered. He was a man of commanding
personality. He would take the whole matter out of my hands. And it was
my
mystery! There
were other reasons, too, which I would hardly acknowledge to myself, but which made it
inadvisable to confide in Colonel Race.
Then I thought of Mrs. Blair. She, too, had been kind to me. I did not delude myself into
the belief that that really meant anything. It was probably a mere whim of the moment. All
the same, I had it in my power to interest her. She was a woman who had experienced most
of the ordinary sensations in life. I proposed to supply her with an extraordinary one! And I
liked her; liked her ease of manner, her lack of sentimentality, her freedom from any form of
affectation.
My mind was made up. I decided to seek her out then and there. She would hardly be in
bed yet.
Then I remembered that I did not know the number of her cabin. My friend, the night
stewardess, would probably know.
I rang the bell. After some delay it was answered by a man. He gave me the information I
wanted. Mrs. Blair’s cabin was No. 71. He apologized for the delay in answering the bell,
but explained that he had all the cabins to attend to.
“Where is the stewardess, then?” I asked.
“They all go off duty at ten o’clock.”
“No—I mean the night stewardess.”
“No stewardess on at night, miss.”
“But—but a stewardess came the other night—about one o’clock.”
“You must have been dreaming, miss. There’s no stewardess on duty after ten.”
He withdrew and I was left to digest this morsel of information. Who was the woman
who had come to my cabin on the night of the 22nd? My face grew graver as I realized the
cunning and audacity of my unknown antagonists. Then, pulling myself together, I left my
own cabin and sought that of Mrs. Blair. I knocked at the door.
“Who’s that?” called her voice from within.
“Its me—Anne Beddingfeld.”
“Oh, come in, gipsy girl.”
I entered. A good deal of scattered clothing lay about, and Mrs. Blair herself was draped
in one of the loveliest kimonos I had ever seen. It was all orange and gold and black and
made my mouth water to look at it.
“Mrs. Blair,” I said abruptly, “I want to tell you the story of my life—that is, if it isn’t too
late, and you won’t be bored.”
“Not a bit. I always hate going to bed,” said Mrs. Blair, her face crinkling into smiles in
the delightful way it had. “And I should love to hear the story of your life. You’re a most
unusual creature, gipsy girl. Nobody else would think of bursting in on me at 1 am to tell me
the story of their life. Especially after snubbing my natural curiosity for weeks as you have
done! I’m not accustomed to being snubbed. It’s been quite a pleasing novelty. Sit down on
the sofa and unburden your soul.”
I told her the whole story. It took some time as I was conscientious over all the details.
She gave a deep sigh when I had finished, but she did not say at all what I had expected her
to say. Instead she looked at me, laughed a little and said:
“Do you know, Anne, you’re a very unusual girl? Haven’t you ever had qualms?”
“Qualms?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes, qualms, qualms, qualms! Starting off alone with practically no money. What will
you do when you find yourself in a strange country with all your money gone?”
“It’s no good bothering about that until it comes. I’ve got plenty of money still. The
twenty-five pounds that Mrs. Flemming gave me is practically intact, and then I won the
sweep yesterday. That’s another fifteen pounds. Why, I’ve got
lots
of money. Forty pounds!”
“Lots of money! My God!” murmured Mrs. Blair. “I couldn’t do it, Anne, and I’ve plenty
of pluck in my own way. I couldn’t start off gaily with a few pounds in my pocket and no
idea as to what I was doing and where I was going.”
“But that’s the fun of it,” I cried, thoroughly roused. “It gives one such a splendid feeling
of adventure.”
She looked at me, nodded once or twice, and then smiled.
“Lucky Anne! There aren’t many people in the world who feel as you do.”
“Well,” I said impatiently, “what do you think of it all, Mrs. Blair?”
“I think it’s the most thrilling thing I ever heard! Now, to begin with, you will stop calling
me Mrs. Blair. Suzanne will be ever so much better. Is that agreed?”
“I should love it, Suzanne.”
“Good girl. Now let’s get down to business. You say that in Sir Eustace’s secretary—not
that long-faced Pagett, the other one—you recognized the man who was stabbed and came
into your cabin for shelter?”
I nodded.
“That gives us two links connecting Sir Eustace with the tangle. The woman was
murdered in
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