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Rh But at that moment, the man with the sinister face (as I had nicknamed him) appeared in the doorway.

"Excuse me," he said, "but this cabin is reserved for the use of Sir Eustace Pedler."

"That's all right, sir," explained the steward. "We're fitting up No. 13 instead."

"No, it was No. 17 I was to have."

"No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger."

"I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it."

"I'm sorry," I said coldly. "But No. 17 has been allotted to me."

"I can't agree to that."

The steward put in his oar.

"The other cabin's just the same, only better."

"I want No. 17."

"What's all this?" demanded a new voice. "Steward, put my things in here. This is my cabin."

It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "It's my cabin."

"It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler," said Mr. Pagett.

We were all getting rather heated.

"I'm sorry to have to dispute the matter," said Chichester with a meek smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own way. Meek men are always obstinate, I have noticed.

He edged himself sideways into the doorway.

"You're to have No. 28 on the port side," said the steward. "A very good cabin, sir."

"I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to me."

We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to give way. Strictly speaking, I, at any rate,