"There's a dot after the 17. Why isn't there a dot after the 1 too?"
"There's a space," I pointed out.
"Yes, there's a space, but"
Suddenly she rose and peered at the paper, holding it as close under the light as possible. There was a repressed excitement in her manner.
"Anne, that isn't a dot! That's a flaw in the paper! A flaw in the paper, you see? So you've got to ignore it, and just go by the spaces—the spaces!"
I had risen and was standing by her. I read out the figures as I now saw them.
"1 71 22."
"You see," said Suzanne, "it's the same, but not quite. It's one o'clock still, and the 22nd—but it's Cabin 71! My cabin, Anne!"
We stood staring at each other, so pleased with our new discovery and so rapt with excitement that you might have thought we had solved the whole mystery. Then I fell to earth with a bump.
"But, Suzanne, nothing happened here at one o'clock on the 22nd?"
Her face fell also. "No—it didn't."
Another idea struck me.
"This isn't your own cabin, is it, Suzanne? I mean not the one you originally booked?"
"No, the purser changed me into it."
"I wonder if it was booked before sailing for some one—some one who didn't turn up. I suppose we could find out."
"We don't need to find out, Gipsy girl," cried Suzanne. "I know! The purser was telling me about it. The cabin was booked in the name of Mrs. Grey—but it seems that Mrs. Grey was merely a pseudonym for the
