The Hewsons, passing through the saloon, devoured by curiosity and swathed in tact, asked if they might have a peep.

This led to everybody, except Dr Natouche, gathering round her. “Just see what you’ve done with children’s chalks and a drop of ink!” Caley Bard exclaimed. “What magic!” He gave a little crowing sound, burst out laughing and looked round at his fellow-passengers. “Do you see!” he cried. “Do you see what she’s done?”

After some reflection they did, each recognising the others more readily than him—or her—self. It appeared that Troy had been lucky in three of her choices. The Hewsons were, in fact, twins and, by an extraordinarily felicitous chance, had been born under Gemini while Miss Rickerby-Carrick confessed, with mantling cheeks and conscious looks, as Caley Bard afterwards put it, to Virgo. She still seemed frightened and stared fixedly at Troy.

“Natouche,” Caley Bard called up the companionway, “you must come down and see this.”

He came down at once. Troy gave him the drawing and for the second time heard his laugh. “It is beautiful and it is comical,” he said presently and handed it back to Troy. “I know, of course, that one must not frivolously compare the work of one great artist with another but may I say that Erni is perhaps your only contemporary who would have approached the subject like this.”

“Very perceptive of you,” said Caley Bard.

“I want to put the rhyme in the middle,” Troy said, “but my lettering’s hopeless: it takes ages to do and is awful when it’s finished. I suppose nobody here would do a nice neo-classic job of lettering?”

“I would,” said Mr Pollock. He was close behind Troy, staring over her arm at the drawing. “I—” he paused and, most unaccountably, Troy was revisited by yesterday’s impression of an impending crisis. “I started in that business,” Pollock said and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice. “Commercial art. You know? Gave it up for real estate. I—if you show me what you’d like—the type of lettering—I’ll give satisfaction.”

He was looking at the drawing with the oddest expression in his barrow-boy face: sharp, appreciative and somehow—what?—shamefaced? Or—could Mr Pollock possibly be frightened?

Troy said, cordially. “Will you really? Thank you so much. It just wants to be a sort of Garamond face. A bit fantasticated if you like.”

Dr Natouche had a book in his hand with the dust-jacket titled in Garamond. “That sort of thing,” Troy said pointing to it.

Mr Pollock looked reluctantly but sharply at it and then bent over the drawing. “I could do that,” he said. “I don’t know anything about fantasticate,” and added under his breath something that sounded like: “I can copy anything.”

Mr Lazenby said loudly: “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Pollock, aren’t you?” and Caley Bard ejaculated: “Honestly, Pollock, how you dare!”

There followed a brief silence. Pollock mumbled: “Only a suggestion, isn’t it? No need to take it up, is there?”

“I’d be very glad to take it up,” Troy said. “There you are: it’s all yours.”

She moved away from the table and after a moment’s hesitation he sat down at it.

Troy went up on deck where she was soon joined by Caley Bard.

“You didn’t half snub that little man,” she said.

“He irritates me. And he’s a damn sight too cool about your work.”

“Oh come!”

“Yes, he is. Breathing down your neck. My God, you’re you. You’re ‘Troy’. How he dares!”

“Do come off it.”

“Have you noticed how rude he is to Natouche?”

“Well, that—yes. But you know I really think direct antagonism must be more supportable than the ‘don’t let’s be beastly’ line.”

“The Rickerby-Carrick line, in fact?”

“If you like. Yes.”

“You know,” he said, “if you weren’t a passenger in the good ship Zodiac I think I’d rat.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s not. Where did you get to last night?”

“I had a telephone call to make.”

“It couldn’t have taken you all evening.”

Remembering Fox’s suggestion Troy, who was a poor liar, lied. “It was about a fur I left at the gallery. I had to go to the police station.”

“And then?”

“I went to the church.”

“You’d much better have come on a one-pub-crawl with me,” he grumbled. “Will you dine tomorrow night in Longminster?”

Before Troy could reply, Miss Rickerby-Carrick, looking scared, came up from below, attired in her magenta wrapper. Her legs were bare and her arthritic toes emerged like roots from her sandals. She wore dark glasses and a panama hat and she carried her Li-lo and her diary. She paused by the wheel-house for her usual chat with the Skipper, continued on her way and to Troy’s extreme mortification avoided her and Bard with the kind of tact that breaks the sound-barrier, bestowing on them as she passed an understanding smile. She disappeared behind a stack of chairs covered by a tarpaulin, at the far end of the deck.

Troy said: “Not true, is she? Just a myth?”

“What’s she writing?”

“A journal. She calls it her self-propelling confessional.”

“Would you like to read it?”

“Isn’t it awful — but, yes, I can’t say I wouldn’t fancy a little peep.”

“How about tomorrow night? Dinner ashore, boys, and hey for the rollicking bun.”

“Could we decide a bit later?”

“In case something more interesting turns up, you cautious beast.”

“Not altogether that.”

Well — what?”

“We don’t know what everybody will be doing,” Troy said feebly and then: “I know. Why don’t we ask Dr Natouche to come?”

“We shall do nothing of the sort and I must say I think that’s a pretty cool suggestion. I invite you to dine, tête-à-tête and—”

Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed.

It was a positive, abrupt and piercing scream and it brought everybody on deck.

She was leaning over the after-taffrail, her wrapper in wild disarray. She gesticulated and exclaimed and made strange grimaces.

“My diary! Oh stop! Oh please! My diary!” cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick.

Somehow or another she had dropped it overboard. She made confused statements to the effect that she had been observing the depths, had leant over too far, had lost her grip. She lamented with catarrhal extravagance, she pointed aft where indeed the diary was to be seen, open and fairly rapidly submerging. Her nose and eyes ran copiously.

The Tretheways behaved with the greatest address. The Skipper put the Zodiac into slow-astern, Tom produced a kind of long-handled curved hook used for clearing river-weed and Mrs Tretheway, placidity itself, emerged from below and attempted to calm Miss Rickerby-Carrick

The engine was switched off and the craft, on her own momentum came alongside Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s diary. Tom climbed over the taffrail, held to it with his left hand and with his right, prepared to angle.

“But no!” screamed Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Not with that thing! You’ll destroy it! Don’t, don’t, don’t! Oh please. Oh please.”

“Stone the crows!” Mr Lazenby astonishingly ejaculated.

With an air of hardy resignation he rose from his Li-lo, turned his back on the company, removed his spectacles and placed them on the deck. He then climbed over the taffrail and neatly dived into The River. Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed again, the other passengers ejaculated and, with the precision of naval ratings, lined the port side to gaze at Mr Lazenby. He was submerged but quickly reappeared with his long hair plastered over his eyes and the diary in his hand.

The Skipper instructed him to go ashore and walk a couple of chains downstream where it was deep enough for the Zodiac to come alongside. He did so, holding the diary clear of the water. He climbed the bank and squatted there, shaking the book gently and separating and turning over the leaves. His hair hung to one side like a caricature of a Carnaby Street fringe, completely obscuring the left eye.