I disbelieved him, but there came a sudden nasty doubt.

“Curtis, who managed the company’s plant at Barcelona, died of yellow-fever,” I said, “and was buried the same day.”

For some time Schnitzel glowered uncertainly at the bulkhead.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“When I was in the legation I knew him well,” I said.

“So did I,” said Schnitzel.  “He wasn’t murdered.  He murdered himself.  He was wrong ten thousand dollars in his accounts.  He got worrying about it and we found him outside the clearing with a hole in his head.  He left a note saying he couldn’t bear the disgrace.  As if the company would hold a little grafting against as good a man as Curtis!”

Schnitzel coughed and pretended it was his cigarette.

“You see you don’t put in nothing against him,” he added savagely.

It was the first time I had seen Schnitzel show emotion, and I was moved to preach.

“Why don’t you quit?” I said.  “You had an A1 job as a stenographer.  Why don’t you go back to it?”

“Maybe, some day.  But it’s great being your own boss.  If I was a stenographer, I wouldn’t be helping you send in a report to the State Department, would I?  No, this job is all right.  They send you after something big, and you have the devil of a time getting it, but when you get it, you feel like you had picked a hundred-to-one shot.”

The talk or the drink had elated him.  His fish-like eyes bulged and shone.  He cast a quick look about him.  Except for ourselves, the smoking-room was empty.  From below came the steady throb of the engines, and from outside the whisper of the waves and of the wind through the cordage.  A barefooted sailor pattered by to the bridge.  Schnitzel bent toward me, and with his hand pointed to his throat.

“I’ve got papers on me that’s worth a million to a certain party,” he whispered.  “You understand, my notes in cipher.”

He scowled with intense mystery.

“I keep ’em in an oiled-silk bag, tied around my neck with a string.  And here,” he added hastily, patting his hip, as though to forestall any attack I might make upon his person, “I carry my automatic.  It shoots nine bullets in five seconds.  They got to be quick to catch me.”

“Well, if you have either of those things on you,” I said testily, “I don’t want to know it.  How often have I told you not to talk and drink at the same time?”

“Ah, go on,” laughed Schnitzel.  “That’s an old gag, warning a fellow not to talk so as to make him talk.  I do that myself.”

That Schnitzel had important papers tied to his neck I no more believe than that he wore a shirt of chain armor, but to please him I pretended to be greatly concerned.

“Now that we’re getting into New York,” I said, “you must be very careful.  A man who carries such important documents on his person might be murdered for them.  I think you ought to disguise yourself.”