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“I think so,” said the sailor.

“Yes, ‘Thank you, Sergeant Pritchard,’ she says. ‘The least I can do is to mark it for you in case you change your mind. There’s no great demand for it in the Fleet,’ she says, ‘but to make sure I’ll put it at the back o’ the shelf,’ an’ she snipped off a piece of her hair ribbon with that old dolphin cigar cutter on the bar–remember it, Pye?–an’ she tied a bow round what was left–just four bottles. That was ’97–no, ’96. In ’98 I was in the Resiliant–China station–full commission. In Nineteen One, mark you, I was in the Carthusian, back in Auckland Bay again. Of course I went up to Mrs. B.’s with the rest of us to see how things were goin’. They were the same as ever. (Remember the big tree on the pavement by the side-bar, Pye?) I never said anythin’ in special (there was too many of us talkin’ to her), but she saw me at once.”

“That wasn’t difficult?” I ventured.

“Ah, but wait. I was comin’ up to the bar, when, ‘Ada,’ she says to her niece, ‘get me Sergeant Pritchard’s particular,’ and, gentlemen all, I tell you before I could shake ‘ands with the lady, there were those four bottles o’ Slits, with ‘er ‘air ribbon in a bow round each o’ their necks, set down in front o’ me, an’ as she drew the cork she looked at me under her eyebrows in that blindish way she had o’ lookin’, an’, ‘Sergeant Pritchard,’ she says, ‘I do ‘ope you ‘aven’t changed your mind about your particulars.’ That’s the kind o’ woman she was–after five years!”

“I don’t see her yet somehow,” said Hooper, but with sympathy.

“She–she never scrupled to feed a lame duck or set ‘er foot on a scorpion at any time of ‘er life,” Pritchard added valiantly.

“That don’t help me either. My mother’s like that for one.”

The giant heaved inside his uniform and rolled his eyes at the car-roof. Said Pyecroft suddenly:–

“How many women have you been intimate with all over the world, Pritch?”

Pritchard blushed plum colour to the short hairs of his seventeen-inch neck.

“‘Undreds,” said Pyecroft. “So’ve I. How many of ’em can you remember in your own mind, settin’ aside the first–an’ per’aps the last–and one more?“

“Few, wonderful few, now I tax myself,” said Sergeant Pritchard, relievedly.

“An’ how many times might you ‘ave been at Aukland?”

“One–two,” he began. “Why, I can’t make it more than three times in ten years. But I can remember every time that I ever saw Mrs. B.”

“So can I–an’ I’ve only been to Auckland twice–how she stood an’ what she was sayin’ an’ what she looked like. That’s the secret. ‘Tisn’t beauty, so to speak, nor good talk necessarily. It’s just It. Some women’ll stay in a man’s memory if they once walked down a street, but most of ’em you can live with a month on end, an’ next commission you’d be put to it to certify whether they talked in their sleep or not, as one might say.”

“Ah,” said Hooper. “That’s more the idea. I’ve known just two women of that nature.”

“An’ it was no fault o’ theirs?” asked Pritchard.

“None whatever. I know that!”

“An’ if a man gets struck with that kind o’ woman, Mr. Hooper?” Pritchard went on.

“He goes crazy–or just saves himself,” was the slow answer.

“You’ve hit it,” said the Sergeant. “You’ve seen an’ known somethin’ in the course o’ your life, Mr. Hooper. I’m lookin’ at you!” He set down his bottle.

“And how often had Vickery seen her?” I asked.

“That’s the dark an’ bloody mystery,” Pyecroft answered. “I’d never come across him till I come out in the Hierophant just now, an’ there wasn’t any one in the ship who knew much about him. You see, he was what you call a superior man. ‘E spoke to me once or twice about Auckland and Mrs. B. on the voyage out. I called that to mind subsequently. There must ‘ave been a good deal between ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’. Mind you I’m only giving you my sum of it all, because all I know is second-hand so to speak, or rather I should say more than second-‘and.”