The voyage is short between Zanzibar and Mombasa, but there was incident.  We were spied on after very thorough fashion, Lady Saffren Waldon’s title and gracious bearing (when that suited her) being practical weapons.  The purser was Goanese —­beside himself with the fumes of flattery.  He had a pass-key, so the Syrian maid went through our cabins and searched thoroughly everything except the wallet of important papers that Monty kept under his shirt.  The first and second officers were rather young, unmarried men possessed of limitless ignorance of the wiles of such as Lady Waldon.  It was they who signed a paper recommending Coutlass to the B. I. agents and a lot of other reputable people in Mombasa and elsewhere, thus offsetting the possibility that the authorities might not let him land. (Had we known all that at the time, Monty’s word against him might have caused him to be shipped back whence he came, but we did not find it out until afterward; nor did we know the law.)

And at Mombasa we made our first united, serious mistake.  It was put to the vote.  We all agreed.

“I can come ashore,” said Monty, “introduce you to officialdom, get you put up for the club, and be useful generally.  That, though, ’ll lend color to the theory that you’re in league with me—­whereas, if I leave you to your own resources, that may help lose my scent.  When they pick it up again we’ll be knowing better where we stand.”

“If you came ashore for a few hours we’d have the benefit of your prestige,” said I.

“I admit it.”

“I suspect a title’s mighty near as useful on British territory as in N’York or Boston,” said Will.  “We’d bask in smiles.”

“Not wholly,” said Monty.  “There’s another side to that.  There’s an English official element that would rather be rude to some poor devil with a title than draw pay (and it loves its pay, you may believe me!).  You’d have friends in high places, but make enemies, too, if I go ashore with you.”

“What’s your own proposal?” Fred demanded.

“I’ve stated it.  I want you fellows to choose.  There’s no need of me ashore—­that’s to say, I’ve a draft to bearer for the amount you three have in the common fund—­here, take it.  If you think you’ll need more than that, then I’ll have to go to the bank with you and cash some of my own draft.  I think you’ll have enough.”

“Plenty,” said Will.

“Let’s send him home!” proposed Fred.

“How about communications?” We had contrived a code already with the aid of a pocket Portuguese-English dictionary, of which Fred and Monty each possessed a similar edition.

“The Mombasa Bank, Will.  You keep them posted as to your whereabouts.  When I write the bank manager I’ll ask him to keep my address a secret.”