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in his middle twenties with crooked front teeth and an eager manner—stood on the periphery.
    “Who is allocated to this pantry?” Miss Vance asked.
    Leach spoke up. “I am, ma’am. . . . Actually, I’m in charge of the children’s dining saloon—this is their pantry.”
    She nodded. “And do you keep a supply of stewards’ uniforms in there, along with foodstuffs?”
    The hint of sarcasm-laced accusation in her tone was not lost on Leach, who blushed and began to fluster. “Why, no, ma’am, of course not . . .”
    Anderson stood up for the lad. “A supply closet is a few steps from here, Miss Vance. And various stewards’ offices are all in this area of the ship.”
    “That’s right, ma’am,” Leach said, still flushed. “Andour sleeping quarters, all of us stewards, are only one floor down . . . just forward of where we stand.”
    “Mr. Leach,” Anderson said to the shaken steward, “perhaps you should get back to your duties.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The sound of children making their usual squall indicated Anderson’s decision was a wise one.
    When Leach had gone, Anderson said to Miss Vance, “I can vouch for Mr. Leach. His uncle is a good friend of mine.”
    Miss Vance seemed unimpressed.
    Anderson went on: “The boy’s a law student—he got stranded on vacation in New York, and I’m helping his uncle, or rather young Neil, to get to England to take his final examinations.”
    “That’s all well and good,” she said. “But these stowaways were waiting in your trusted steward’s pantry, wearing stewards’ uniforms themselves.”
    “For pity’s sake, Miss Vance,” Anderson said, clearly exasperated. “His father’s an English judge.”
    Anderson could not understand that Americans like Miss Vance (and myself) were not as impressed with pedigrees as the English.
    “Is Mr. Leach an experienced hand?” she asked.
    “No—this is his first voyage.” Anderson explained to her what he had to me: that he was short-staffed, that many able-bodied seamen had been shanghaied, in effect, by the Royal Navy.
    “Then we’ll keep an eye on young Leach,” she said. “After all, these three got aboard somehow. . . . Where’s your brig?”
    “On this deck, aft,” Anderson said. “Down near the hospital rooms.”

    “How many cells?”
    “One large cell, four bunks.”
    She nodded her approval.
    “What did you mean,” I asked, coming in off the sidelines, “they may have explosives?”
    “It’s entirely possible,” she said, “that spies such as these, in addition to using their camera to take pictures, say, of the rumored guns aboard—”
    “There are none,” Anderson interrupted, obviously peeved.
    “They wouldn’t know that, Captain,” she said. “In any case, spies who had taken their incriminating pictures, with the aid of greedy crew members, might well plant a bomb aboard a ship like this one, and then—stowaways and crew conspirators, alike—jump ship.”
    “What, in the middle of the Atlantic?” Anderson asked, as if all of this seemed patently preposterous.
    “No,” she said calmly. “Just off the shore of Ireland . . . close enough to be picked up by rowboat, or even to swim for it.”
    Anderson had nothing to say to this all too plausible theory.
    “They could have already placed their explosive,” I pointed out.
    She brushed a blonde tendril from her face, as if she were impatient with it—or was that with me? “Yes—but I doubt they’ve engaged any timing device, as yet. Too many uncertainties about exactly when we might arrive.”
    It was obvious Anderson was taking all of this seriously now. He said, “You omit one rather dire possibility, Miss Vance.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “Perhaps they aren’t planning to wait until they nearshore. Perhaps they have already planted their device, and set their timer . . . because they intend to go over the side in a lifeboat, and be plucked from the seas by a U-boat.”
    I frowned.