'In other words,' Alan said mildly, 'you haven't taken him and asked for a full inquiry because you've been too busy. Is that it?' He was careful to keep his voice casual, even though a half-formed idea was taking shape in his mind.

'That is so,' Captain Jaabeck said. 'Of course, if any good might come…'

'Let's leave that now,' Alan said. His thought had been vague and fleeting and might come to nothing. In any case he needed time to read the immigration statutes thoroughly. Abruptly he switched the subject.

'Henri,' he told Duval, 'what I'd like to do now is go over all the things that have happened to you as far back as you can recall. I know that some of it was in the newspaper but there may have been things which were left out, and others you've thought of since. Why don't you begin at the beginning?^ What's the first thing you remember?'

'My mother,' Duval said.

'What do you remember most about her?'

'She kind to me,' Duval said simply. 'After she die, no one kind again – until this ship.'

Captain Jaabeck had risen and turned away, his back to Alan and Duval. He was slowly filling his pipe.

'Tell me about your mother, Henri,' Alan said; 'what she was like, what she used to talk about, what you did together.'

'My mother beautiful, I think. When I a little boy she hold me; I listen and she sing.' The young stowaway spoke slowly, carefully, as if the past were something fragile, to be handled gently lest it disappear. 'Other time she say: someday we go on ship and find new home. We two go together…' Haltingly at some moments, with more confidence at others, he talked on.

His mother, he believed, had been the daughter of a French family which had returned to France before his own birth. Why she had no connexion with her parents could only be guessed at. Perhaps it had something to do with his father who (so his mother said) had lived with her briefly in Djibouti then, leaving her, had returned to sea.

Essentially it was the same story which had been told to Dan Orliffe two days before. Throughout Alan listened carefully, prompting where necessary and interjecting a question or retracing where there seemed confusion. But most of the time he watched the face of Henri Duval. It was a convincing face which lighted or mirrored distress as incidents were relived in its owner's mind. There were moments of anguish too, and a point where tears glistened as the young stowaway described his mother's death. If this were a witness in court, Alan told himself, I would believe what he says.

As a final question he asked, 'Why do you want to come here? Why Canada?' This time it's sure to be a phoney answer, Alan thought; he'll probably say it's a wonderful country and he always wanted to live here.

Henri Duval considered carefully. Then he said, 'All others say no. Canada last place I try. If not here, I think no home for Henri Duval, ever.'

'Well,' Alan said, 'I guess I got an honest answer.' He found himself strangely moved and it was an emotion he had not expected. He had come with scepticism, prepared if necessary to go through legal motions, though not expecting to succeed. But now he wanted more. He wanted to do something for Henri Duval in a positive sense; to remove him from the ship and offer him the chance to build a life for himself in a way which fate had denied him until now.

But could it be done? Was there a loophole somewhere, somehow, in immigration law through which this man could be brought in? Perhaps there was, but if so there was no time to lose in finding it.

During the last part of the interview Captain Jaabeck had come and gone several times. Now he was back in the cabin and Alan asked, 'How long will your ship remain in Vancouver?'

'It was to have been five days. Unfortunately there are engine repairs and now it will be two weeks, perhaps three.'

Alan nodded. Two or three weeks was little enough, but better than five days. 'If I'm to represent Duval,' he said, 'I must have written instructions from him.'

'Then you will have to put down what is needed,' Captain Jaabeck said. 'He can write his name, but that is all.'

Alan took out a notebook from his pocket. He thought for a moment, then wrote:

I, Henri Duval, am at present being detained on the Motor Vessel Vastervik at La Pointe Pier, Vancouver, BC. I hereby make application for permission to be landed at the above port of entry and I have retained Alan Maitland of the firm of Lewis and Maitland to act as counsel for me in all matters pertaining to this application.

The captain listened carefully as Alan read the words aloud, then nodded. 'That is good,' he told Duval. 'If Mr Maitland is to help, you must put your name to what he has written.'

Using a pen which the captain supplied, Henri Duval slowly and awkwardly signed the notebook page in a childish, sprawling hand. Alan watched impatiently. His one thought now was to get away from the ship and examine more thoroughly the fleeting idea which had occurred to him earlier. He had a sense of mounting excitement. Of course, what he had in mind would be a long shot. But it was the kind of long shot which might, just might, succeed.

The brief respite of Christmas had sped by as if it had never been.

On Christmas Day the Howdens had gone to early Communion and, after returning home, received guests until lunch-time – mostly official callers and a few family friends. In the afternoon the Lexingtons had driven over, and the Prime Minister and Arthur Lexington spent two hours closeted privately, discussing arrangements for Washington. Later, Margaret and James Howden talked by transatlantic telephone to their daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren in London, who were spending Christmas together. By the time everyone had spoken to everyone else it was a lengthy call and, glancing at his watch at one point, James Howden was glad that his wealthy industrialist son-in-law, and not himself, would receive the bill. Later still, the Howdens dined quietly by themselves and afterwards the Prime Minister worked alone in his study while Margaret watched a movie on television. It was the sad, gentle James Hilton story Goodbye, Mr Chips, and Margaret was reminded nostalgically that she and her husband had seen it together in the 1930s, but now the star, Robert Donat, and its author were long dead, and nowadays the Howdens no longer went to movies… At 11.30 after saying goodnight, Margaret went to bed, while James Howden continued to work until 1 AM.

Milly Freedeman's Christmas Day had been less arduous, but also less interesting. She had wakened late and, after some mental indecision, went to a church service but not Communion. In the afternoon she took a taxi to the home of a former girlfriend from Toronto, now married and living in Ottawa, who had invited Milly for Christmas dinner. There were several small children in the household, who became trying after a while and, later still, boredom set in at the inevitable talk of child management, domestic help, and the cost of living. Once more – as she had on other occasions – Milly realized she was not fooling herself in believing that scenes of so-called domestic bliss held no charm for her. She preferred her own comfortable apartment, independence, and the work and responsibility she enjoyed. Then she thought: maybe I'm just getting old and sour, but all the same it was a relief when it became time to go. Her friend's husband drove her home and, on the way, made tentative advances which Milly rejected firmly.

Throughout the day she had thought a good deal about Brian Richardson, wondering what he was doing and if he would telephone. When he failed to call, her disappointment was intense.