He had, until that moment, been unsure whether the master knew his name, his true name. He had not given it himself, he was confident of that, could not remember hearing the master use it, and if William had mentioned it, it might easily have been forgotten. Now, from the master’s remark, from the watchful, amused light in his eyes, it was obvious he did know—had known—and that at some point it would be necessary to offer an explanation. But what sort of explanation? He could not explain it to himself, was astonished at how easily the fabrication had come to him, as though, in some deep fold of his being, he had been rehearsing it for days.

They waited on the deck the best part of half an hour. The cat, disturbed by the searching, strolled along the scuppers, paused a moment to observe them, then made a nest for itself inside a coil of rope beside the capstan. They waited. There were no sudden shouts or alarms from below. Was it really possible to hide a man on a ship like the Jenny? Was there some place they kept ready for just such a moment?

The lieutenant pushed his head above the forward hatchway. “Mr. Lovall?” he said. “Yes, you sir. If you would be good enough to come with me a moment.”

He went. He did not look back at the others. As he climbed down the ladder he half expected to feel himself seized round the waist, bundled, pinioned. He also knew this was an absurd idea. They were here to find Crawley and he had nothing to do with Crawley. He was a bystander, albeit one who had just stood in the sunshine telling lies about himself.

The curtain to his cabin had been hooked back. There was light from a lamp—not the one Erikson had given him but a larger one they had brought from somewhere else in the ship. The lieutenant, cocked hat under his arm, stood by the cot-bed. On the blanket, laid out neatly, were the contents of Lacroix’s bags.

“We do only what the times require of us,” said the lieutenant.

Lacroix nodded. He was looking at his things, wondering which of them might have betrayed him, but of what he could see on the blanket the only object that carried a name was the writing case.

“You are on your way to Glasgow?” asked the lieutenant.

“I am,” said Lacroix.

“To collect rents.”

“Yes. That is part of it.”

“And the rest?”

“The . . . ?”

“The rest. In Glasgow. Besides your collecting.”