Murder on the Lusitania by Conrad Allen

at a card table with him.
    Weekes spotted the American for the first time and came over.
    “Did my wife send you after me?” he said.
    “No, sir. Mrs. Weekes decided to go back to the cabin.”
    “Oh, dear! Is it that late?” He consulted his watch. “By Jove! So it is. I rather lost track of time in here. Why didn’t you join us, Mr. Dillman?”
    “I have no skill at cards.”
    “Not a question of skill, old chap.”
    “You could have fooled me.”
    “Luck. That’s the secret.”
    “I prefer other pleasures.”
    Weekes gave him a sly wink. “So did I at your age. And why not? Every dog and all that. What?” He turned to Erskine. “My wife has gone off to bed. So has yours, probably.”
    “She usually does,” said Erskine. “I’ve got her well trained.”
    “What did you use? Lumps of sugar?”
    “A diamond necklace.”
    The two men chuckled aloud and ambled out unsteadily together.
    Dillman was glad to get out of the smoking room. His eyes were stinging and the fug was catching in his throat. He made his way to the promenade deck and stood at the rail. It was quite chilly and there were few people about. There was enough moonlight to show how choppy the waves were but the ship rode them with impressive grace and stability. Dillman reviewed the evening. It had been instructive. He had met new friends and learned more about the relationships between existing ones. A visit to the smoking room had also introduced him to Edward Collins. A collective pattern of behavior was beginning to emerge among the first-class passengers, but he saw nothing that might cause any real alarm. Jeremiah Erskine had sensed disaster in the air. Dillman smiled as he considered the possibility that the fellow had merely anticipated his own drubbing at the card table.
    The cold wind was encouraging the other passengers to return to their cabins, but Dillman strolled the length of the deck before he was ready to leave. He turned a mariner’s eye upward to identify the stars and would probably have stayed there for some time had he not been disturbed by a sudden noise. He looked alongthe deck in time to see the figure of a man, descending some steps at speed. Dillman only saw him in shadowy outline but he recognized him at once. It was Henry Barcroft. Without quite knowing why, Dillman set off in pursuit of him.
    It was a long and bewildering chase, though he was not sure if the journalist even realized that he was being followed. At all events, Barcroft managed to stay too far ahead of him to be caught. Each time Dillman got within sight of him, the man seemed to vanish around a corner or plunge down another staircase, showing a remarkable knowledge of the ship’s labyrinthine passages. Eventually, Barcroft vanished altogether and Dillman was left staring in dismay up and down a long empty corridor, wondering which direction his quarry had taken. A decision had to be made. Turning to the right, he broke into a trot and headed for some double doors, pushing them firmly open and surging through, only to find himself colliding with someone.
    The young woman let out a cry of surprise and stumbled back. Dillman managed to save her from falling by embracing her in penitential arms. He released her at once and took a step back.
    “I do beg your pardon! I had no idea anyone was there.”
    “Nor more did I,” she said, still shaken. “But I suppose I should be grateful that, if I had to bump into anyone, I picked a fellow American.”
    “George Porter Dillman.”
    “You were in one heck of a rush, Mr. Dillman.”
    “I was looking for someone.”
    “But hit me instead. Amidships. Literally.”
    “Are you all right?” he said with concern.
    “I’ll live. Just about. But who were you after?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “Nobody else came this way.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Quite sure. My name is Ellen Tolley, by the way.” They shook hands. “I like to think I’m pretty tough but you’re a big guy to