He had just finished shaving when he received the call. Dillman opened his cabin door to find a junior officer standing outside in the corridor.
“Mr. Halliday’s compliments, sir—would you please join him in his cabin as soon as possible?”
“I’ll be with him directly,” said Dillman, starting to undo the belt around his dressing gown. “Tell him I’m on the way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Minutes later, Dillman was inspecting himself in the mirror as he hauled on his jacket. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. Normally he would dress at a more leisurely pace but the summons betokened urgency. He was soon hurrying off down the passageway toward the staircase, making the last few adjustments to his clothing as he did so and wondering what emergency had prompted the purser to send for him.
Charles Halliday had left the door of the cabin open for him.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, Mr. Dillman.”
“It sounded important.”
“It is,” said Halliday, indicating his other visitor. “I believe you’ve met our chief engineer before.”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “Good morning, Mr. Rourke.”
Fergus Rourke gave him a noncommittal grunt. He was clearly simmering with anger. The purser closed the cabin door and kept his back to it when he spoke.
“We have a thief aboard the ship,” he disclosed.
“Not what I’d call the bleeder!” said Rourke vengefully.
“He may just be a souvenir hunter but somehow I don’t think so. We could be up against something rather more serious. I’ll let Mr. Rourke explain. He’s the injured party.”
“Yes,” said the chief engineer, bristling. “But my injuries are nothing to the ones he’ll suffer when I catch up with the bugger!”
“What exactly happened?” asked Dillman.
“Some items were taken from my cabin.”
“Items?”
“Diagrams. Charts. Highly confidential.”
“When was this, Mr. Rourke?”
“Who knows? I only discovered the theft this morning when I had to check something on one of the diagrams. It just wasn’t there in the folder. Nor were some of the others.”
“But they were there yesterday?”
“Definitely.”
“Someone must have got into the cabin last night,” decided Halliday. “What time did you turn in, Mr. Rourke?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Late,” repeated the other. “Can’t put an exact time on it.”
“And the cabin was locked while you were away?” said Dillman.
“Of course. It’s always locked.”
“Who else has a key?”
“Nobody.”
“There must be a master key somewhere.”
“There is,” said Halliday. “First thing I checked. It was locked away in a cupboard all night. The thief got in by some other means.”
“I want him caught,” demanded Rourke. “Quick!”
“That may not be easy,” admitted Dillman, “with the vast number of people aboard. We don’t even know if we’re looking for a light-fingered passenger or a member of the crew.”
“No member of the crew would dare go near my cabin, Mr. Dillman. They know me too well to risk it. No,” said the chief engineer, stroking the red beard, “I’m sure this burglar’s name is on our passenger list.”
“That’s why I sent for you, Mr. Dillman,” said Halliday seriously. “We can institute inquiries among the crew. The rest is up to you.”
“The first thing to establish is motive. From what Mr. Rourke says, I gather that these are highly sensitive documents. Relating to the engine room, presumably? I think that rules out the theory about the souvenir hunter,” he concluded. “Since the Cunard emblem has been put on just about everything on the Lusitania, you might lose a few towels and bath mats. Even the odd blanket. And the ashtrays will be an obvious target. But not technical diagrams. They’d be meaningless to the vast majority of passengers. No, gentlemen, I have an uneasy feeling that this man is rather more than a thief. He’s also a spy of some sort.”
“Wait till I get my hands on the bastard!” said Rourke with a menacing gesture. “I’ll tear his heart and liver out and sling ’em into one of the furnaces! Nobody steals from me!”
“Calm down, Fergus,” advised the purser.
“I’ll slaughter him, so help me!”
“Making wild threats will get us nowhere. We have to catch him first and, as Mr. Dillman says, that could be tricky.”
“Are there any possible suspects?” asked the American.
“Not as far as we know.”
“What about you, Mr. Rourke? Anyone spring to mind?”
“No. I been too busy doing my job to notice.”
“But you must have had lots of visitors to the engine room. Some people love the thrill of peeping in there to see those pistons clanking away. All part of the experience. Then there’s the press, of course,” he said. “I daresay you had to give them the guided tour.”
“Pain in the arse, they were!”
“Did any of them show an exceptional interest in what went on?”
“No,” said Rourke. “Most of them couldn’t stand the noise and the heat. Once they’d got the basic details from me, they scarpered. They’re more concerned with enjoying their free trip across the Atlantic to worry too much about the men who actually get them there.” His chest inflated as a memory nudged. “Wait a minute, though! There was one journalist who came back on his own. Inquisitive little sod!”
“What did he want?”
“To wander around, talk to the men. Ha!” snorted the chief engineer. “Wish I’d let him now. Stokers work hard. They don’t like to be put on show like animals in a zoo. They’d have sent him packing with a flea in his ear.” He scratched his head. “Now, what was his name?”
Dillman supplied it. “Henry Barcroft, by any chance?”
“That was him! Nosy devil! You know him?”
“Yes.” Halliday sighed. “Mr. Barcroft has come to our notice already.”
“Fetch him here!” suggested Rourke. “I’ll beat the truth out of him!”
“Take it easy, Fergus.”
“But he’s the obvious person, Mr. Halliday.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s the culprit,” argued Dillman. “Obvious suspects often turn out to be completely innocent. And we can hardly have you assaulting a member of the British press. That would lead to the most adverse publicity, Mr. Rourke. I can’t imagine you’d get any thanks from the Cunard Line. We must proceed with caution.”
“I agree,” said Halliday, turning to the chief engineer. “Leave this to us, Mr. Rourke. I know that you’re anxious to get back to your post. We’ll keep you fully informed of any developments.”
“If it does turn out to be this turd Barcroft—”
“Then we’ll take the appropriate action,” the purser assured him, opening the door to let him out. “Thanks for your help. At least we know where to start now.”
The chief engineer looked grimly from one to the other, then ducked his head as he took his huge frame out. Closing the door behind him, Charles Halliday gave an apologetic shrug.
“You’ll have to forgive him sounding off like that. Fergus is a proud man. Guards his territory very carefully. This has been a real blow to him. He takes it personally”
“I can see that.”
“Not unnaturally, the captain is disturbed as well. He wants the matter cleared up quickly but discreetly. So, where do we begin?”
“With Mr. Barcroft. I didn’t want to say this in front of the chief engineer because he’s inflamed enough already, but I fancy that I saw our journalist behaving rather suspiciously last night. On the prowl after everyone else had gone off to bed.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t be certain that it was him, mark you, and I never got close enough to confirm it. But if it was not Barcroft, it was his double.”
“Where did you see him?”
“On the promenade deck,” said Dillman. “I tried to follow him but he led me all over the ship and eventually shook me off when we got to the main deck.”
“Why go down there? His cabin is on the shelter deck.”
“He didn’t stop to tell me, Mr. Halliday.”
“Did he know he was being stalked?”
“I’m not sure.”
Halliday pondered. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Firstly, we must search his cabin. Thoroughly. Whoever you assign to the task must leave the place exactly as he found it.”
“Unless they actually find the stolen documents.”
“Slim chance of that,” said Dillman. “We have to be realistic. A man who’s clever enough to steal the documents will know where to hide them. I doubt very much if he’d leave them hanging around his own cabin. He might already have passed them on to an accomplice.”
“It’s still worth a try.”
“Definitely. We may not reclaim what was taken but we might find other clues to Mr. Barcroft’s real purpose for being on board. But let’s not rush to judgment. He could still be innocent.”
“What happens then, Mr. Dillman?”
“We start looking elsewhere.”
“Right.”
“Will you organize the search of his cabin?”
“Yes. Do you wish to be involved?”
“No,” said Dillman. “I’d prefer to speak to Henry Barcroft myself and sound him out. It will also keep him occupied while your men go through his things. I take it that Barcroft is on your list of accredited journalists?”
“No doubt about that.”
“Yet he’s not representing any specific newspaper.”
“He’s a freelance.”
Dillman lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “A freelance what, though?”
Genevieve Masefield agreed to meet him, more out of gratitude than out of any desire to spend time alone in his company. Henry Barcroft had introduced her to Lord Carradine, who in turn had introduced her to his circle of friends. Genevieve had made progress. Unfortunately it was in spite of Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann rather than because of them. Kind and well meaning though the two sisters were, they had been something of a hindrance during the visit to Lord Carradine’s private lounge on the previous evening. Genevieve needed to distance herself from them. When she headed for the Veranda Café that morning, she made sure that the Hubermanns did not know where she was going or with whom she intended to pass an idle hour.
Henry Barcroft was in an expansive mood, behaving more like a first-class passenger than a journalist on an assignment. The bright sunshine encouraged him to wear a striped blazer, white trousers, and a straw boater. He lacked only a cricket bat to turn him into a symbol of the English summer. For her part, Genevieve chose a two-piece dress carefully cut to display her figure. The long, narrow patterned skirt reached to her ankles and was matched by a Zoave jacket, which covered her white silk blouse. Her hat, trimmed with velvet bows, had a low crown and wide brim, and was set at just the right angle to show off her face to its best effect.
Elsewhere in the café, Norfolk jackets were popular among the men though there were a few lounge coats among the more elderly travelers who still seemed to feel that they were relaxing at their London clubs. It was left to the ladies to supply any color, style, or variety. One woman, in a mustard dress and a voluminous hat, sat alone and caressed the tiny dog lying somnolently in her lap. Another, anticipating much colder weather, was huddled in a furtrimmed coat with a muff at the ready.
Henry Barcroft summoned the waiter and ordered a pot of tea.
“How did you get on with Lord Carradine?” he asked Genevieve.
“He was extremely nice.”
“One of the old school. Odd thing is, although he’s made millions out of tobacco, he doesn’t smoke himself.” He gave a laugh. “Not exactly a good advertisement for his cigarettes, is it?”
“I hadn’t realized he was such a sportsman.”
“Oh, yes. He’s a regular on the house party circuit. Quite a shot, by all accounts. And a celebrated horseman. Of course, there’s another reason why he gets so many invitations for weekends in the country.”
“Is there?”
“Come, Miss Masefield. I don’t believe you’re that naive.”
“Ah,” she said, understanding. “Lord Carradine is a bachelor.”
“A highly eligible bachelor. I daresay he has an endless array of pretty daughters pushed at him for inspection but none have managed to ensnare him yet. He’s too fond of his freedom.”
“Yet he did talk about wanting to father children.”
“My guess is that he’s probably done that already!” said Barcroft with a smirk. “Without even knowing it. Well, if he wants the Carradine dynasty to continue, he’ll have to walk down the aisle with someone sooner or later. Do you think he’d make good husband material?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Barcroft,” she said, resenting his familiar tone and not wishing to be drawn into speculation. “Lord Carradine is a real gentleman, that’s all I know. But what happened to you last night?” she went on, moving the conversation in another direction. “You seemed to disappear from the dining saloon.”
“I had to, Miss Masefield. I have no dining privileges in first class. We minions of the press are second-class citizens. We have access to the whole ship during the day but the toffs draw the line at actually breaking bread with us.” He beamed at her. “Present company excepted, that is. I only turned up yesterday because I’d promised to make that introduction and I always honor my promises.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barcroft. It was appreciated.”
The journalist was about to pay her some fulsome compliments on her appearance when he caught sight of a familiar face coming into the café. He rose to his feet and extended his arms in a welcome.
“Here comes our mystery man again!”
“Good morning, Mr. Barcroft. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Dillman.”
Dillman was checked. “You know my name?”
“I told you that I was well informed. Oh,” he said, indicating his companion. “Allow me to introduce Miss Genevieve Masefield.”
Dillman took the proffered hand and gave her a little bow.
“George Dillman. Delighted to meet you, Miss Masefield.”
She gave a polite smile of acknowledgment but it lacked warmth.
“Would you care to join us?” invited Barcroft.
“I don’t wish to intrude on a private conversation,” said Dillman.
“But you might be able to help us.” He turned to Genevieve. “Mr. Dillman has a maritime background. He designs and builds yachts. A true sailor in every way.”
“Do join us, Mr. Dillman,” she said, endorsing the invitation in order to escape being alone with Barcroft. “Where do you build these yachts?”
“In Boston,” he explained, sitting beside her and catching a first whiff of her delicate perfume. “It’s a family firm. Over fifty years old now. We have an established reputation.”
“Is it a lucrative business?” asked Barcroft, resuming his seat.
“We don’t starve.”
“Only the rich can afford private yachts.”
“The firm has a long waiting list.”
“That shows how successful it is. But what I wanted to ask you was this, Mr. Dillman. In your opinion, will the Lucy manage to regain it?”
“Regain what?”
“The Blue Riband, of course.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Barcroft.”
“Nonsense. I know very little about oceanic travel. You’re a veteran. That means you must have developed instincts. What do they tell you?”
“To beware of foolish predictions.”
“The Lusitania is bound to regain the Blue Riband,” said Genevieve. “That’s what everyone was saying over dinner last night.”
Barcroft grinned. “One of my colleagues is taking bets to that effect. I need your advice, Dillman. Should I put my money on a record?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are too many imponderables,” warned Dillman. “It’s far too early to judge. Bad weather might slow us down. Or we might be hampered by ice. It drifts down on the Labrador current and can be a real hazard. Then there’s the possibility of technical problems in the engine room, of course. And an outside chance of navigational error.”
“Not from Captain Watt, surely?”
“Highly unlikely, I agree, but it’s possible. The Lusitania is a superb ship but it would be unfair to expect too much of her on her maiden voyage. If you really want to know how to wager your money, Mr. Barcroft,” he suggested, “the person to talk to is the chief engineer.”
“I’ve already interviewed Mr. Rourke.”
“Have you?” said Dillman artlessly.
“He and I didn’t exactly get on.”
“Why not?”
“Long story. Ah!” he said, as a waiter approached. “Our tea. We’re going to need a third cup. If Americans drink tea, that is.”
“Have you never heard of the Boston Tea Party?” said Genevieve.
It was a swift riposte to Barcroft’s gibe, and Dillman shot her a smile of thanks. The tray was unloaded by the waiter and a third cup ordered. The man went off to get it. Dillman turned to Genevieve.
“You seem to be without your sentries today, Miss Masefield.”
“Sentries?”
“The two ladies I keep seeing with you.”
“I didn’t realize I’d caught your attention, sir.
“I couldn’t help noticing the three of you together.”
“They’re the Hubermann sisters,” explained Barcroft. “I wouldn’t care to go three rounds with either of them. But I wouldn’t really call them sentries.” His oily smile warned Genevieve that a compliment was coming. “Miss Masefield is the Lusitania and they are her tugboats.”
“They are dear friends of mine,” said Genevieve sharply, “and I will not have them mocked.”
“I only spoke in jest,” said the journalist, semaphoring regret.
“And in rather poor taste.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let’s go back to the chief engineer,” suggested Dillman. “You say that the two of you did not get on. What exactly was the problem?”
But there was no time for Barcroft to answer. Abigail and Carlotta Hubermann suddenly came into the room and swooped down on them. Two more cups and a second pot of tea were ordered and conversation turned to more neutral subjects. Dillman concentrated on winning them over with a combination of charm and deference but he kept one eye on Henry Barcroft. The man was an enigma. His bonhomie was apparently inexhaustible. He was completely at ease in the company of Genevieve Masefield and the Hubermann sisters, even though none of them seemed to have any particular liking for him. Indeed, he was given a stern rebuke by Abigail at one point and a warning stare by Carlotta, but his broad smile survived intact. The more reproaches he was given, the happier he seemed to be. Dillman wondered how exuberant he would remain if he knew that his cabin was being searched at that very moment.
It was almost noon before the chance finally presented itself. While going about his own duties, the steward made sure that he went past the Rymers’ suite at regular intervals. Like his brother, Jack was short, stout, and well groomed but with a paler complexion and rather fewer teeth. A chat with a colleague elicited the fact that the Rymers were still in their suite, and he began to think they would be entombed there for the entirety of the voyage, making it impossible for Jack and his brother to earn another reward from a grateful second-class passenger.
Violet Rymer finally broke cover. Tired of being trapped with her parents, she excused herself to go for a walk on deck in order to work up an appetite for luncheon. Sylvia Rymer was too engrossed in her novel to wish to put it aside and her husband also sanctioned their daughter’s outing. They took it as a hopeful sign. Being locked in their lounge with a moping girl brought neither of them any pleasure. By giving Violet a degree of freedom, they might lift her spirits. Matthew Rymer went back to the study of his Bartholomew atlas and Marie Corelli weaved her spell anew for his wife.
Jack was lucky enough to see her actually coming out of the suite. That made the identification certain. Violet Rymer glanced over her shoulder, heaved a sigh, then set off down the corridor toward the stairs. The steward hurried after her, looking around to ensure that nobody else would see or hear them.
“ ’Scuse me, miss!” he called.
Violet stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Got something for you,” he said, coming up to her and feeling in his pocket. “I am talking to Miss Violet Rymer, am I?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’m to give you this.”
He offered something to her and she held out a palm to receive it. Mystified at first, she responded with a mild shriek when she saw what she was holding. Her hand closed on the tie pin and her legs buckled. The steward reached out to support her.
“Steady on, miss!” he said in alarm. “You all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she mumbled.
“You don’t look like it. Shall I fetch a glass of water?”
Violet slowly recovered. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“You sure?” She nodded. “Then I’ll be off, miss.”
“Wait!” she implored.
“I got my duties.”
“Who gave you this?” she asked, opening her palm. “I must know.”
“My brother, miss.”
“Brother?”
“Albert’s a steward in second class.”
“And who gave it to him?”
“A gentleman who wanted you to have it.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Never even met him, miss.”
“Did he give no name?”
“Who knows? I only did what Albert told me.”
“But he’s a second-class passenger, you say?”
Jack nodded, then scurried off down the corridor. Violet was in turmoil, not knowing whether to be anxious or elated. Philip Garrow was there, after all. She had given him the tie pin as a present. He had sent it back to her as a sign. Violet almost swooned with excitement. Putting a hand against the wall to steady herself, she debated whether she should try to make contact with him or wait for a further message. Whatever happened, his presence on the ship had to be kept secret from her parents. There would be ructions if they discovered that he was aboard. As she looked at the tie pin again, she remembered the moment when she gave it to him and the kiss with which he expressed his gratitude. All hesitation fled. The miracle had happened and Philip somehow contrived to get aboard. Violet had to try to reach him at once. She would find her way to the second-class quarters and begin her search. But her resolve was short-lived. Before she could even get to the steps, a cabin door opened ahead of her and Ada Weekes stepped out. When she saw Violet, her face lit up.
“Going for a walk on deck?” she asked cheerily.
“Yes, Mrs. Weekes.”
“Then I’ll come with you, if I may.”
Charles Halliday was still in his cabin when Dillman returned there. The expression on the purser’s face told him that the search had been in vain. Dillman was disappointed but not surprised.
“Did they search the cabin thoroughly?” he asked.
“They turned it inside out.”
“And they found nothing?”
“Nothing that would point to Barcroft as our man. Apart from his clothing, all that was in there were his writing materials and a few articles which he’d drafted.” Halliday shook his head wearily. “No sign of any diagrams of the ship.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.”
“No, Mr. Dillman. But it does mean that he’s one jump ahead of us. If he really is the thief, that is. He’s far too cunning to be caught with stolen goods in his possession. Did you manage to speak to him?”
“Yes,” said Dillman. “I’ve just come from him. We had a rather strained tea party with three ladies. Barcroft is a cool customer, I have to admit that. Until this voyage, he’d never met any of them, but he was chatting away as if they were lifelong friends.”
“What’s your guess?”
“I wouldn’t trust him an inch, Mr. Halliday.”
“Then he could be the culprit?”
“I’d rather give him the benefit of the doubt until we have proof. That means probing a little deeper,” he said, brushing his mustache with a finger as he thought it through. “I want to know much more about Henry Barcroft’s reason for being on this cruise. Which newspaper is he selling his articles to? What angle is he taking in them? Why doesn’t he move around with the rest of the press contingent? Who is he trying so hard to impress? In short, what’s his game?”
“Do you get the feeling he may have an accomplice?”
“No, I think he’s very much on his own.”
“Just when everything was going so well!” said the other, clicking his tongue. “We expect some petty pilfering, especially in third class, but not theft from the chief engineer’s cabin.”
“The Cunard Line has fierce rivals.”
“It’s a cutthroat business, Mr. Dillman.”
“They want to know what makes the Lusitania tick.”
“Men like Fergus Rourke. Technical advances are one thing. It takes blood, sweat, and tears to get the best out of them. That means you need a chief engineer who can hold the whip hand over his men. Stokers are a law unto themselves,” he said. “They work hard, drink hard, and fight like demons when they’ve a mind to, but they’ll break their backs for someone like Fergus Rourke. That’s why I’m so keen to get those stolen documents back. They’re his personal possessions. Upset him and the ripples will spread right through the engine room.”
“We’ll find them, Mr. Halliday. Somehow.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I’ll chat to some of the other journalists. See what they know about Henry Barcroft. Get some more background on him.”
“And then?”
“I’ll check the wireless room. If he’s been drafting articles, he may already have sent some off. That will at least tell us who’s paying him.”
“Good thinking!”
“Meanwhile, you continue your own inquiries among the crew.”
“We will, Mr. Dillman.”
“I’ll leave you to it, sir. I know how busy a purser always is.”
Halliday gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve had one of those mornings. Complaint after complaint! The best was from a lady in one of the regal suites. Did you know that we had Itzak Weiss aboard?”
“Yes. I saw his name on the passenger list.”
“Most people would be delighted to have a cabin next to one of the world’s great violinists. They get a free concert every time he practices. Not this particular lady! She was outraged.”
“Don’t tell me she complained about the noise?”
“Oh, no,” said Halliday with a grimace. “Her objection was that he kept practicing the Brahms Violin Concerto, which she hates. Tried to make me force him to play the Beethoven instead because she loves that. Imagine! Giving orders to a musician of Weiss’s caliber!”
“What did you say to the lady?”
“I told her to buy some earplugs.”
Dillman smiled. “You’re a true diplomat, Mr. Halliday.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell her where to put them.”
Violet Rymer was in a quandary. She was uncertain whether she should detach herself from Ada Weekes to begin her search or confide in the older woman and ask her for help. Both courses of action had obvious pitfalls. If she went charging off, she risked upsetting the older woman and there was no guarantee that she would find the man she sought in the melee of second-class passengers. Philip Garrow might be anywhere and her prolonged absence would arouse suspicion. At the same time, she drew back from sharing her secret with her companion. Ada Weekes was a sweet and understanding woman, but Violet doubted if she would take her side against her parents. She was much more likely to report the conversation to Sylvia Rymer, and that would be fatal.
In the end, Violet rejected both options and continued to pace meekly along the deck beside the other woman. What she needed was a friend whom she could trust to act as a go-between, someone who would appreciate her dilemma and refrain from passing any moral judgment. Since she knew so few people aboard, finding such a person would not be easy. She recalled the man who had given her the tie pin but balked at the notion of employing him. The message she wished to send was far too important to be entrusted to a mere steward. A far more reliable intercessor was required.
Violet was still wrestling with the problem when a solution rose up before her. Striding along the deck toward them was George Dillman. He had already offered her tacit support and she sensed that he was a man of discretion. It was an outside chance, but it had to be taken. Acting on impulse, she excused herself from Ada Weekes and hurried off along the deck to confront Dillman. He touched the brim of his hat.
“Good day, Miss Rymer.”
“I must speak to you!” she gasped.
“Now?”
“Later. Could you meet me in the lounge?”
“When?”
“This afternoon,” she gabbled. “Four o’clock.”
“Well …”
“Please, Mr. Dillman.”
Her plea was irresistible. “I’ll be there,” he agreed.
Ada Weekes came strolling up to them with a warm smile.
“What are you two young people talking about?” she asked.
“The Blue Riband, Mrs. Weekes,” said Dillman, taking control. “It seems to be the main topic of conversation. Bets are being taken everywhere on whether or not we’ll make the fastest crossing.”
“My husband is certain that we will.”
“There’s your answer, Miss Rymer.” He turned to the older woman. “Because I made the mistake of confessing that I know something about yachts, everyone looks upon me as the fount of all maritime wisdom. The truth is that I don’t know if we’ll break the record.” He licked his finger and held it up. “We might, though. We have a following wind.”
Ada Weekes laughed and Violet gave a sudden giggle. Dillman waved a farewell and moved off, puzzled by the sudden demand from Violet and wishing that it could have come at a more opportune time. Catching a thief took priority over everything else, but he could not ignore her entreaty. He would just put it temporarily to the back of his mind.
Violet Rymer could not do that. The brief exchange with Dillman had left her tingling. It was not simply because he had agreed to meet her. There was something else, deeply felt but not yet fully understood. It was almost as if she had come out of mourning and it enabled her to look at him properly for the first time. Dillman was a kind and caring young man. He also cut an elegant figure. Her father might mock his nationality with heavy-handed humor but it lent him a glow in Violet’s eyes. It was bewildering. Clasped in her hand was something that told her the man she loved was aboard the same ship, yet she had felt a wave of affection for someone else wash over her when she spoke to Dillman. She was in more of a quandary than ever.