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WhenIlefthimtheretogobacktomyroomthestewardwasfinishingdusting.Isentforthemateandengagedhiminsomeinsignificantconversation.Itwas,asitwere,triflingwiththeterrificcharacterofhiswhiskers;butmyobjectwastogivehimanopportunityforagoodlookatmycabin.AndthenIcouldatlastshut,withaclearconscience,thedoorofmystateroomandgetmydoublebackintotherecessedpart.Therewasnothingelseforit.Hehadtositstillonasmallfoldingstool,halfsmotheredbytheheavycoatshangingthere.Welistenedtothestewardgoingintothebathroomoutofthesaloon,fillingthewaterbottlesthere,scrubbingthebath,settingthingstorights,whisk,bang,clatter—outagainintothesaloon—turnthekey—click.Suchwasmyschemeforkeepingmysecondselfinvisible.Nothingbettercouldbecontrivedunderthecircumstances.Andtherewesat;Iatmywritingdeskreadytoappearbusywithsomepapers,hebehindmeoutofsightofthedoor.Itwouldnothavebeenprudenttotalkindaytime;andIcouldnothavestoodtheexcitementofthatqueersenseofwhisperingtomyself.Nowandthen,glancingovermyshoulder,Isawhimfarbackthere,sittingrigidlyonthelowstool,hisbarefeetclosetogether,hisarmsfolded,hisheadhangingonhisbreast—andperfectlystill.Anybodywouldhavetakenhimforme.
Iwasfascinatedbyitmyself.EverymomentIhadtoglanceovermyshoulder.Iwaslookingathimwhenavoiceoutsidethedoorsaid:
“Begpardon,sir.”
“Well!..
