“Bellairs？”herepeated。“Notinthesaloon，Iamsure。Hemaybeinthesecondclass。Thelistsarenotmadeout，but——Hullo！
’HarryD。Bellairs？’Thatthename？He’sthererightenough。”
AndthenextmorningIsawhimontheforwarddeck，sittinginachair，abookinhishand，ashabbypumaskinrugabouthisknees：thepictureofrespectabledecay。Offandon，Ikepthiminmyeye。Hereadagooddeal，hestoodandlookeduponthesea，hetalkedoccasionallywithhisneighbours，andoncewhenachildfellhepickeditupandsoothedit。Idamnedhiminmyheart；thebook，whichIwassurehedidnotread——thesea，towhichIwasreadytotakeoathhewasindifferent——thechild，whomIwascertainhewouldaslievehavetossedoverboard——allseemedtomeelementsinatheatricalperformance；andI
madenodoubthewasalreadynosingafterthesecretsofhisfellow-passengers。Itooknopainstoconcealmyself，myscornforthecreaturebeingasstrongasmydisgust。Butheneverlookedmyway，anditwasnightbeforeIlearnedhehadobservedme。
Iwassmokingbytheengine-roomdoor，fortheairwasalittlesharp，whenavoiceroseclosebesidemeinthedarkness。