SOUNDINGS

With characteristic abruptness Liane Delorme announced that she was sleepy, it had been for her a most fatiguing day.  Captain Monk rang for the stewardess and gallantly escorted the lady to her door.  Lanyard got up with Phinuit to bow her out, but instead of following her suit helped himself to a long whiskey and soda, with loving deliberation selected, trimmed and lighted a cigar, and settled down into his chair as one prepared to make a night of it.

“You never sleep, no?” Phinuit enquired in a spirit of civil solicitude.

“Desolated if I discommode you, monsieur,” Lanyard replied with entire amiability—­“but not to-night, not at least until I know those jewels have no more chance to go ashore without me.”

He tasted his drink with open relish.  “Prime Scotch,” he judged.  “One grows momentarily more reconciled to the prospect of a long voyage.”

“Make the most of it,” Phinuit counselled.  “Remember our next port of call is the Great American Desert.  After all, the despised camel seems to have had the right idea all along.”

He gaped enormously behind a superstitious hand.  Monk, returning, published an elaborate if silent superciliary comment on the tableau.

“He has no faith at all in our good intentions,” Phinuit explained, eyeing Lanyard with mild reproach.  “It’s most discouraging.”

“Monsieur suffers from insomnia?” Monk asked in his turn.

“Under certain circumstances.”

“Ever take anything for it?”

“To-night it would require nothing less than possession of the Montalais jewels to put me to sleep.”

“Well, if you manage to lay hands on them without our consent,” Phinuit promised genially, “you’ll be put to sleep all right.”

“But don’t let me keep you up, messieurs.”

Captain Monk consulted the chronometer.  “It’s not worth while turning in,” he said:  “we sail soon after day-break.”

“Far be it from me to play the giddy crab, then.”  Phinuit busied himself with the decanter, glasses and siphon.  “Let’s make it a regular party; we’ll have all to-morrow to sleep it off in.  If I try to hop on your shoulder and sing, call a steward and have him lead me to my innocent white cot; but take a fool’s advice, Lanyard, and don’t try to drink the skipper under the table.  On the word of one who’s tried and repented, it can not be done.”

“But it is I who would go under the table,” Lanyard said.  “I have a poor head for whiskey.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean to say,” Phinuit explained, “I’m glad to have another weakness of yours to bear in mind.”

“You are interested in the weaknesses of others, monsieur?”

“They’re my hobby.”

“Knowledge,” Monk quoted, sententious, “is power.”

“May I ask what other entries you have made in my dossier, Mr. Phinuit?”

“You won’t get shirty?”