"Ah, yes, I guess you must mean Mr. Wilson and his son," spoke the steward when he had referred to a list that corresponded with the numbers of the vacant places at the table. "They have their meals served in their stateroom."
"Why?" asked Tom, "are they ill?"
"I really couldn't say, sir. They prefer it that way, and the captain consented to it from the first."
"But I should think they'd want to get out for a breath of air," put in Ned. "I can't stay below decks very long."
"They may come out at night," suggested the steward. "Some of our travelers think they are less likely to be seasick if they come out at night. They don't see the motion of the waves then."
"Guess that's it," agreed Tom with a wink at Ned. "Much obliged. Glad we're not seasick," and he linked his arm in that of his chum's and marched him off.
"Why the wink?" asked Ned, when they were out of earshot of the steward.
"That was to tip you off to say nothing more. I've got a plan I'm going to work."
"What is it?"
"Well, we know who the mysterious ones are, anyhow—at least we know their names—Wilson."
