her cabin. My friend, the night stewardess, would probably know. I rang the bell. After some delay it was answered by a man. He gave me the information I wanted. Mrs. Blair's cabin was No. 71. He apologized for the delay in answering the bell, but explained that he had all the cabins to attend to.
"Where is the stewardess, then?" I asked.
"They all go off duty at ten o'clock."
"No—I mean the night stewardess."
"No stewardess on at night, miss."
"But—but a stewardess came the other night—about one o'clock."
"You must have been dreaming, miss. There's no stewardess on duty after ten."
He withdrew and I was left to digest this morsel of information. Who was the woman who had come to my cabin on the night of the 22nd? My face grew graver as I realized the cunning and audacity of my unknown antagonists. Then, pulling myself together, I left my own cabin and sought that of Mrs. Blair. I knocked at the door.
"Who's that?" called her voice from within.
"It's me—Anne Beddingfeld."
"Oh, come in, Gipsy girl."
I entered. A good deal of scattered clothing lay about, and Mrs. Blair herself was draped in one of the loveliest kimonos I had ever seen. It was all orange and gold and black and made my mouth water to look at it.
"Mrs. Blair," I said abruptly, "I want to tell you the story of my life—that is, if it isn't too late, and you won't be bored."
"Not a bit. I always hate going to bed," said Mrs. Blair, her face crinkling into smiles in the delightful way it had. "And I should love to hear the story of your life. You're a most unusual creature, Gipsy girl. Nobody else
