“About Wainwright, yes. He had been playing since dinner time. Zimmermann nobody seems to have noticed. How long he had been in the smoke-room I can’t discover. We may safely count steam trawlers out, Decies. Focus on the neolithic fauna of South Africa.” “Shall you turn in now?” “No,” said O’Shea, reaching up to the rack above his head for a pipe and tobacco pouch that lay there. “I am going to spend an hour with the young gentleman from the Marconi Company. Radio operators are sometimes inspiring.” To reach my cabin I had to pass the smoke-room door, and, just as I came to it: “Either of them is old enough to be her father!” I heard. I stepped in. The faithful three alone kept a resentful steward from his bed. “Whose father?” said I. “Hullo, Decies!” the speaker hailed me. “Sit down and let’s have a doch-an’-dorris. We were talking about Nanette.” “Oh!” I remarked, dropping into a chair. “What seems to be the difficulty?” “Well,” another explained, “she has fallen flat for that chap Slattery; and we were saying that he’s old enough to be her father.” “He is about thirty-five,” I hazarded--“a dangerous age for a girl of eighteen.” “Piffle!” was the retort. “Why, when she was only thirty he would be nearly fifty!” “Have you pointed this out to her?” “Rather not! Suppose _you_ have a shot. You are well in with her ladyship.” “I should prefer to be excused,” said I. The profound slumbers of my Scottish friend proclaimed themselves to the ear as I walked along the alleyway leading to our stateroom. A sleeping partner who snores is difficult. When he snores in Gaelic he is nearly insupportable. I undressed to a ceaseless accompaniment that I found the reverse of soothing. Slipping on a dressing gown, I lighted my pipe, determined to go out on the deserted deck; for the night was hot as Sahara; the sea a burnished mirror. Off I went, and met not a soul. For half an hour or so I wandered aimlessly. When, at last, my pipe burned out, feeling sleepy enough to face the snore barrage, I retraced my steps. Rounding the corner of the alleyway, I pulled up short. Dr. Zimmermann had just come out of my room and was quietly closing the door behind him! I stepped back swiftly. But I was too late. He turned and saw me. He wore an appalling red gown and a really incredible nightcap. Through the thick pebbles of his spectacles he beamed apologetically, and: “Mr. Decies--my _dear_ sir!” he said, coming forward. “I can never forgive myselves--never!” He held up a huge pipe. “I did not know that you had a companion. I knock. I think I hear you sleeping. And I venture to come in. I am restless. The smoke-room steward is retired. I know you are a pipe lover, and”--he indicated the yawning bowl--“I have not tobacco, so, I venture.” I stared him fully in the eyes for a moment, then: “Don’t apologize,” I said. “You are welcome to a pipe.” Opening the door, I stood aside for him to enter. My pouch lay, conspicuous, on the bed cover, but: