looked at him doubtfully for a moment, then stopped and smiled.
“You’re the transport officer, aren’t you? I don’t know your name?”
Morrison’s heart beat a trifle faster. “Morrison, Miss Stott,” he answered, trying to speak naturally. “Harry Morrison.”
She smiled again. “Well, Mr Morrison,” she went on, “I want some help and I think – though I’m not sure – that you’re the person I should apply to.”
“I hope I am,” Morrison declared. “At all events, if I can’t handle it myself, I can at least put you in touch with the proper officer.”
“Thanks,” she returned. “That’s very kind. I’ve done such a stupid thing. I’ve forgotten an attaché case. It’s not important in a way except that all my books are in it, and I was hoping to get some time to read while on board.”
Morrison thought rapidly. “Who is there at your home who knows about it?” he asked.
“I think either Redpath, the butler, or his wife could find it. They’ve been left in charge of the house, but the other servants have gone on holidays.”
“Well, if you’ll instruct your butler to find the case and hand it over, I’ll arrange for a car to call for it tomorrow morning. It would then come on tomorrow’s plane and you’d have it about midday.”
“Oh, splendid!” She was obviously pleased. “But how could I instruct him? I suppose a wireless cablegram?”
“Easier to telephone, wouldn’t it? There’s a continuous wireless telephone service in operation between ship and shore. You’d simply ring up your butler in the ordinary way. You can do it at any time from your cabin.”
“You don’t say so! Rather marvellous that, really! I’ll certainly do it, and if you’ll be kind enough to arrange for the case to be brought down, I’d be so grateful.”
Morrison gave the proper assurances, expecting that once business was over she would pass on. But she didn’t. She stood beside him at the rail looking at the bare contours of the islands between which the ship was slowly passing.
“You know, I love this sort of scenery,” she went on, “wild bare mountain and moorland; particularly with outcropping rocks.”
“I do, too,” Morrison agreed, “but most people prefer trees with their mountains.”
“We shall have better scenery further on?”
“Oh, lord, yes. The Gairlock and Skye, for example. You know the Cuillins, perhaps?”
“No, but I’m told they’re wonderful. Why do we all crowd off to the Riviera and the Italian lakes and places like that, and miss our own scenery at home?”
“One reason perhaps,” Morrison returned, “is that before this ship began to run it wasn’t so easy to see it. At some of the places a steamer calls, but to others there’s no regular service.”
“I’m looking forward to it all so much.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. There are lots of charming places down the west coast and across in Northern Ireland. You’ve come aboard at the best point in the whole trip.”
She chatted for a few minutes, then said she must go and telephone. As Morrison watched her tripping off along the deck he realised that, though policy and peace of mind might urge forgetfulness of her image, this no longer lay within the realms of practical politics.
Half an hour later she rang him up to say that she had spoken to her butler, who would have the case ready for the messenger.
To insure that his arrangements should function without a hitch, Morrison made them with extreme care. But this was no longer because it was being done for his employer’s grandniece, but solely for the sake of that young lady herself.
Next day he met the flying boat and was much eased in mind when he found that the case had come. Margot Stott was with some passengers on the promenade deck and he gave himself the pleasure of handing it to her in person.
She thanked him, not exactly with warmth, but with friendliness. She kept him for a moment chatting, but he
“You’re the transport officer, aren’t you? I don’t know your name?”
Morrison’s heart beat a trifle faster. “Morrison, Miss Stott,” he answered, trying to speak naturally. “Harry Morrison.”
She smiled again. “Well, Mr Morrison,” she went on, “I want some help and I think – though I’m not sure – that you’re the person I should apply to.”
“I hope I am,” Morrison declared. “At all events, if I can’t handle it myself, I can at least put you in touch with the proper officer.”
“Thanks,” she returned. “That’s very kind. I’ve done such a stupid thing. I’ve forgotten an attaché case. It’s not important in a way except that all my books are in it, and I was hoping to get some time to read while on board.”
Morrison thought rapidly. “Who is there at your home who knows about it?” he asked.
“I think either Redpath, the butler, or his wife could find it. They’ve been left in charge of the house, but the other servants have gone on holidays.”
“Well, if you’ll instruct your butler to find the case and hand it over, I’ll arrange for a car to call for it tomorrow morning. It would then come on tomorrow’s plane and you’d have it about midday.”
“Oh, splendid!” She was obviously pleased. “But how could I instruct him? I suppose a wireless cablegram?”
“Easier to telephone, wouldn’t it? There’s a continuous wireless telephone service in operation between ship and shore. You’d simply ring up your butler in the ordinary way. You can do it at any time from your cabin.”
“You don’t say so! Rather marvellous that, really! I’ll certainly do it, and if you’ll be kind enough to arrange for the case to be brought down, I’d be so grateful.”
Morrison gave the proper assurances, expecting that once business was over she would pass on. But she didn’t. She stood beside him at the rail looking at the bare contours of the islands between which the ship was slowly passing.
“You know, I love this sort of scenery,” she went on, “wild bare mountain and moorland; particularly with outcropping rocks.”
“I do, too,” Morrison agreed, “but most people prefer trees with their mountains.”
“We shall have better scenery further on?”
“Oh, lord, yes. The Gairlock and Skye, for example. You know the Cuillins, perhaps?”
“No, but I’m told they’re wonderful. Why do we all crowd off to the Riviera and the Italian lakes and places like that, and miss our own scenery at home?”
“One reason perhaps,” Morrison returned, “is that before this ship began to run it wasn’t so easy to see it. At some of the places a steamer calls, but to others there’s no regular service.”
“I’m looking forward to it all so much.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. There are lots of charming places down the west coast and across in Northern Ireland. You’ve come aboard at the best point in the whole trip.”
She chatted for a few minutes, then said she must go and telephone. As Morrison watched her tripping off along the deck he realised that, though policy and peace of mind might urge forgetfulness of her image, this no longer lay within the realms of practical politics.
Half an hour later she rang him up to say that she had spoken to her butler, who would have the case ready for the messenger.
To insure that his arrangements should function without a hitch, Morrison made them with extreme care. But this was no longer because it was being done for his employer’s grandniece, but solely for the sake of that young lady herself.
Next day he met the flying boat and was much eased in mind when he found that the case had come. Margot Stott was with some passengers on the promenade deck and he gave himself the pleasure of handing it to her in person.
She thanked him, not exactly with warmth, but with friendliness. She kept him for a moment chatting, but he
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