Butonthewharf，whenwereachedit，therewasnosignofbustle，and，butforthegalleysmoke，nomarkoflifeontheNorahCreina。Pinkerton’sfacegrewpale，andhismouthstraightened，asheleapedonboard。
“Where’sthecaptainofthis——？”andheleftthephraseunfinished，findingnoepithetsufficientlyenergeticforhisthoughts。
Itdidnotappearwhomorwhathewasaddressing；butahead，presumablythecook’s，appearedinansweratthegalleydoor。
“Inthecabin，atdinner。”saidthecookdeliberately，chewingashespoke。
“Isthatcargoout？”