Percival’s abhorrence of publicity, which had been overshadowed by his anxiety, now took complete possession of him.  With punctilious formality he handed Bobby on deck, then, with a manner sufficiently forbidding to discourage all questions and remarks, pushed his way haughtily through the laughing crowd and went below.

It was not until he entered his state-room that he recalled the grievance that ostensibly had sent him ashore.  In the middle of his berth was an open suitcase, with its contents widely distributed.  Three pairs of shoes lay in the middle of the floor, a bunch of variegated neckties depended from the door-knob, and a stack of American magazines and newspapers lay upon the sofa, Percival stood on the threshold sniffing.  There was no mistaking the odor.  It was white rose, a perfume forever associated with the perfidious Lady Hortense!  Was he to suffer this refinement of cruelty in having the very air he breathed saturated with her memory?  He rang furiously for his valet.

“Judson, see that that person’s things are put upon his side of the room and kept there, and under no condition allow the port-holes to be closed.”

“Very good, sir.  Will you dress now for dinner!”

But Percival was in no mood for the long table d’hote dinner, with its inevitable comments upon the affair of the afternoon.  He preferred a sandwich and a glass of wine in a secluded corner of the smoking-room, after which he played a few games of solitaire, then betook himself to bed.  His sleep was not a restful one, being haunted by departing steamers, arriving Chinamen, and an endless procession of scornful Lady Hortenses.

He was awakened the next morning long before his accustomed time by some one stirring noisily about the state-room.  After lying in indignant silence for a while behind his drawn curtains, he touched the electric bell.  When Judson’s respectful knock responded, he said in tones of icy formality: 

“Judson, tell the steward to draw my tub.”

“I say,” broke in a voice on the outer side of the curtain, “while you are drawing things, I wish you’d try your hand at this cork.”

There was a brief parley at the door, and a “Very good, sir,” from Judson.

Percival’s anger rose.  It was bad enough to share his room with a stranger, but to share his valet as well was out of the question.  When a second tap announced that his bath was ready, he slipped a long robe over his silk pajamas and emerged imperiously from his berth.  It is not easy to maintain a haughty dignity in a bath-robe, with one’s hair on end, but Percival came very near it.

The effort was wasted, however, for a cheerful “Good morning, Partner,” greeted him, and his cold eye discerned not a slant-eyed Oriental, but a round, pink American face, partly covered with lather, beaming upon him.

“My name is Black,” continued the new-comer—­“Andy Black.  And yours?”