And Cynthia was in 374, right across the little corridor. The passport in her hand was Canadian, and Miss Mitchall had said ... “Look here,” Cynthia said suddenly, “could my roommate be called? I think she might be able to help us;” and added, “you can be sure she won’t talk.” The captain glanced dubiously at Stasia’s father. “The less people who know about this ...” then, at the other’s nodded gesture toward the purser, “ask her to come here,” he commanded gruffly. Miss Mitchall, slightly fluttering, was produced almost immediately. Cynthia didn’t try to explain the circumstances, just showed her the passport. “Did you ever see this man? I mean, does he look familiar?” Squinting near-sightedly, the little governess examined the picture, then passed it back with a shake of her head. “No, my dear. I’ve never seen him.” There was a sigh in the cabin. But Cynthia had not finished. That teasing idea of hers ... Miss Mitchall had once told her something that bore on this. ... “Then if not that man, someone very like him?” “Someone like him, surely. But not that man. Probably a twin brother. I was a twin myself.” So that was it. Cynthia’s memory had almost, but not quite, done the trick. “By Gad!” barked the Captain, “the woman has brains! Where did you see this man, madame?” His tone was weighty with respect. “In the cabin across from 374. Once the door was open as I passed and he was shaving, with the light full on his face. There was quite a scar on his cheek. He shut the door with a slam when he saw me.” Cynthia was still looking at the passport in her hand. “Was this man from Ottawa, the one you wanted?” she asked. Then gasped. It was almost as though she had sprung a mine, so laughably surprised were the faces about her. “How did you know that?” the Captain’s gruff tones held suspicion. But Cynthia had suddenly remembered the suitcase she had stumbled over the first day, and the dark patch that showed some label had been removed from it. “You see,” she explained further, “I’m accustomed to remembering the shapes and colors of things, perhaps more than most people do because that’s part of my job. I remembered an Ottawa paster on the suitcase because of a certain clever arrangement of colors, green and blue and orange.” Mr. Carruthers stopped her with a gesture. Stepping into the doorway he spoke a moment in a low voice to the steward outside then returned to the room. “Will you describe this label for us, or could you draw it?” “It’s something like this.” Cynthia took the pencil out of her pocket and made a little diagram on a blank page of her note book. “It had an orange moon and a tower, rather medieval, dark blue against it. Then there was a jiggley border of green, in this manner.”