There was small attraction for passengers on deck, and West grimaced to
himself as he emerged from the heated cabins. Yet it was not altogether
distasteful to him. He was a man to whom a calm atmosphere meant
intolerable stagnation. He was essentially born to fight his way in the
world.

For a while he paced alone, to and fro, along the deserted deck, his
hands behind him, the inevitable cigarette between his lips. But
presently he paused and stood still close to the companion by which he
had ascended. It was sheltered here, and he leaned against the woodwork
by which Cynthia Mortimer had supported herself that morning, and smoked
serenely and meditatively.

Minutes passed. There came the sound of hurrying feet upon the stairs
behind him, and he moved a little to one side, glancing downwards.

The light at the head of the companion revealed a man ascending,
bareheaded, and in evening dress. His face, upturned, gleamed deathly
white. It was the face of Archie Bathurst.

West suddenly squared his shoulders and blocked the opening.

"Go and get an overcoat, you young fool!" he said.

Archie gave a great start, stood a second, then, without a word, turned
back and disappeared.

West left his sheltered corner and paced forward across the deck. He
came to a stand by the rail, gazing outwards into the restless darkness.
There seemed to be the hint of a smile in his intent eyes.