"By Jove!" exclaimed the purser. "There's Parrot & Co.!" He laughed
and pointed toward one of the torches.

"Parrot & Co.? I do not understand."

"That big blond chap behind the fourth torch. Yes, there. Sometime
I'll tell you about him. Picturesque duffer."

She could have shrieked aloud, but all she did was to draw in her
breath with a gasp that went so deep it gave her heart a twinge. Her
fingers tightened upon the teak-rail. Suddenly she knew, and was
ashamed of her weakness. It was simply a remarkable likeness, nothing
more than that; it could not possibly be anything more. Still, a ghost
could not have startled her as this living man had done.

"Who is he?"

"A chap named Warrington. But over here that signifies nothing; might
just as well be Jones or Smith or Brown. We call him Parrot & Co., but
the riff-raff have another name for him. The Man Who Never Talked of
Home. For two or three seasons he's been going up and down the river.
Ragged at times, prosperous at others. Lately it's been rags. He's
always carrying that Rajputana parrot. You've seen the kind around the
palaces and forts: saber-blade wings, long tail-feathers, green and
blue and scarlet, and the ugliest little rascals going. This one is
trained to do tricks."

"But the man!" impatiently.

He eyed her, mildly surprised. "Oh, he puzzles us all a bit, you know.