“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
From the top of the “Island” he looked down upon a deck swarming with passengers. It had needed only the sound of the chains to bring them scurrying out of their state-rooms and the saloons, eager to get ashore.
“Cawn't one land presently?” an English valet was enquiring of every one he met.
The promenade deck was alive with persons who had not hitherto made an appearance, and every seat in the reading-saloon was occupied by persons filling out and signing Customs declarations in anticipation of the morrow. It was time for Micky to get back to his instrument, for there would be a big bunch of commercials. To-morrow he ’d go ashore, get a Turkish bath and take in the game.
He opened the door of his office and stepped inside, drawing it to behind him, and as he did so became aware of that same delicate fragrance of violets that he had noticed the week before when he had awakened from his dream and observed Mrs. Trevelyan going down the ladder. But this was stronger. Had she been there?
“Micky!” Lily’s voice came from out the darkness.
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