“Don’t say that I was his storekeeper, because I wasn’t, or his servant! I was his equal, by gad. A partner in the firm, the blamed old swindler--” So they passed, the Man in Black and the besotted pensioner from China. At this hour another person deeply interested in Jesse Trasmere’s fate was making his final preparations for departure. He had ventured forth in broad daylight, braved the glances of the purser of the “Arak” and had signed on as steward of the second saloon on a voyage to South Africa. The end of the long nightmare had come. Walters had to join his ship overnight, an excellent arrangement from his point of view, since it reduced the danger of detection to a minimum. He carried with him to the big roomy docks, a respectable sum of money, the proceeds of his pilfering at Mayfield and his opportunities had been many, remembering Mr. Trasmere’s parsimony. He had sent his bag off to the ship in the afternoon and he had only to convey himself to the docks. He went on foot, keeping to the less frequented streets, and although this entailed a longer journey he was taking no risks. A month ago he would have trembled at every shadow, and the sight of a policeman would have paralysed his activities, but now the case had been forgotten; one never read a line about it in even the more sensational newspapers, and it was with some confidence that he traversed the wharf and mounted the gangway leading to the ill-lighted decks of the liner. “Report to the chief steward,” said the custodian on duty at the ship end of the plank and Walters enquired his way forward, went down the broad companion to the broader deck where the chief steward’s office is situated, and joined a dozen other men who were lined up in queues waiting to report. Walters would not have worried if the waiting had occupied the rest of the evening, but in a remarkably short space of time he stepped into the chief steward’s cabin, knuckled his forehead and said: “Reporting for duty, sir. John Williams, steward--” and then he stopped. On the further side of the steward’s table was Inspector Carver. Walters turned in a flash but the doorway was blocked by a detective. “All right,” he said despondently as they snapped the steel handcuffs on his wrists, “but I didn’t do it, Mr. Carver. I know nothing about the murder. I am as innocent as a babe unborn.” “What I like about you,” said Carver unpleasantly, “is your originality.” He followed behind the two men who held the arms of their manacled prisoner and Tab joined him. As they came off the ship, Tab asked: “Well, do you honestly think you have him, Carver?” “Who--Walters? That’s the man all right, I know him very well indeed.” “I mean the murderer,” said Tab.