I resigned my staff of office with a sigh, and settled down to be sorry for Nanette--and Slattery. O’Shea and I stood at the door of the smoke-room watching the coast of Madeira melt into a blue distance. Nanette, in a short, sleeveless frock, came along the deck, linked between two men, one of whom was Slattery. She pretended not to see us. But right in front of the door she pulled up insistently, leaning on the rail and pointing out something to her companions. Nanette knew she had very beautiful arms. But she wanted O’Shea to know. He smiled at me, sadly, and turning, went into the smoke-room. The girl’s dainty naïveté was hopelessly disarming. We sat down facing one another across a table, and: “There is something I want you to do for me,” said O’Shea. “About--Nanette?” “No.” He shook his head, and that tragically hungry look came into his eyes that I had seen there before. “Don’t let us talk about her, Decies. I have a valuable portfolio in my stateroom.” “Surely you will hand it over to the purser?” “Impossible. Contrary to the rules of the game. The ship might sink. But a certain Adolf Zara is on board. Therefore----” He paused, staring at me significantly. “You want _me_ to take charge of it?” “Yes. Lock it in your trunk. I don’t expect any move on this gentleman’s part. He is stalking bigger game and therefore anxious to avoid publicity. But he _might_ take it into his head to pay me an unofficial visit. I have a room to myself. You are sharing a cabin with a representative of the _Cape Times_ whom, luckily, you chance to have met before.” “Very well,” said I. “Of course, this man, Zara, will know you are on board?” “Naturally,” O’Shea returned. “His associates in Madeira will have advised him--although absolutely nothing to afford a clue to his assumed identity happened at Funchal. He is a dangerously clever man.” “Have you taken a look around?” “Yes. Have you?” “I have. But no likely candidate for the honour of being Adolf Zara has presented himself.” “I agree,” said O’Shea quietly. “But I have an appointment with the purser in an hour’s time. I am going carefully through the declaration sheets.” When O’Shea left me, I was joined by the journalist, my stable-companion; a substantial Scot whom I had met in London two years before. He proposed a promenade. And just as we started the faithful three came into the smoke-room, together, and ordered drinks. Their aspects were mournful. Then, in a shady corner outside, we discovered the explanation. Nanette was coiled up in a deck chair, her charming head turned in the direction of her neighbour on the right--Slattery. In a chair on her left, enveloped in an unnecessary rug, Mrs. Porter slumbered soundly--and almost noiselessly. Nanette beckoned to me. As I paused, she threw a venom-laden glance at the unconscious chaperone, and: “I do not like you, Mrs. P.,” she murmured. “The reason why is plain to see--and hear.”