He persisted in his apparently unruffled composure, and just asked in the most casual of tones, sweeping the chessmen off the board with a steady hand, ‘Would you gentlemen care for a third game?’

He asked the question purely objectively, purely as a matter of business. But the remarkable thing was that he had not been looking at McConnor, and instead had raised his eyes to gaze keenly straight at our saviour. Just as a horse recognizes a new and better rider by his firmer seat, he must have identified his true, genuine opponent during those last moves. Instinctively, we followed the direction of his eyes, and looked at the stranger in suspense. However, before he could think about it, let alone answer, McConnor in his ambitious excitement was triumphantly calling out to him, ‘Of course! But now you must play against him on your own! You against Czentovic!’

Here, however, something unforeseen happened. The stranger, who curiously enough was still staring hard at the now empty chessboard, started when he felt that all eyes were turned on him and heard us appealing to him so enthusiastically. His expression became confused.

‘Oh, by no means, gentlemen,’ he stammered in visible dismay. ‘Quite out of the question … you mustn’t think of me for a moment … I haven’t sat at a chessboard for twenty, no, twenty-five years … and only now do I see how improperly I behaved, interfering in your game without asking … please excuse my presumption.’ And before we had recovered from our surprise, he had already turned and left the saloon.

‘But that’s impossible!’ thundered the temperamental McConnor, slamming his fist on the table. ‘The man says he hasn’t played chess for twenty-five years? Out of the question! He calculated every move, every counter-attack for five or six moves in advance. No one can do that off the cuff. It’s absolutely impossible – isn’t it?’

With this last question McConnor had instinctively turned to Czentovic. But the world champion remained as cool as ever.

‘I really can’t venture an opinion. Anyway, the gentleman played in a rather strange and interesting way, so I gave him a chance on purpose.’ Rising casually to his feet as he spoke, he added in his matter-of-fact manner, ‘If he, or indeed you gentlemen, would care for another game tomorrow, I’m at your disposal from three in the afternoon.’

We couldn’t suppress a slight smile. All of us knew that Czentovic had definitely not been generous enough to give our unknown helper a chance, and his remark was nothing but a naive excuse to mask his own failure. Our wish to see such unswerving arrogance taken down a peg or two grew all the stronger. Suddenly we peaceable, easy-going passengers were overcome by a wild, overweening lust for battle. The idea that here on this ship, in the middle of the ocean, the palm of victory might be snatched from the chess champion – a record that would be flashed all over the world by telegraph offices – fascinated us in the most provocative way. And then there was the intriguing mystery arising from our saviour’s unexpected intervention just at the critical moment, and the contrast between his almost timorous modesty and the professional’s unshakeable self-confidence. Who was this stranger? Had chance brought a hitherto undiscovered chess genius to light here? Or was a famous master concealing his name from us for some unknown reason? We discussed all these possibilities with great excitement; even the most audacious hypotheses did not seem to us audacious enough to reconcile the stranger’s baffling shyness and surprising protestations with his unmistakable skill. On one point, however, we were all agreed; we weren’t giving up the spectacular prospect of another encounter. We decided to try every possible means of persuading our helper to play a game against Czentovic the next day. McConnor pledged himself to meet the expense. Since inquiries put to the steward had by now produced the information that the unknown man was an Austrian, I was charged, as his fellow countryman, to convey our request to him.

It didn’t take me long to track down the man who had fled in such haste. He was on the promenade deck, reclining in his deckchair and reading. Before going closer, I took the opportunity of observing him. His head with its sharply cut features was resting on the cushion in a slightly weary attitude; once again I was particularly struck by the strange pallor of his relatively young face, framed at the temples by dazzlingly white hair. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling that this man must have aged very suddenly. I had hardly approached him before he rose courteously, and introduced himself by a name that was immediately familiar to me as that of a highly regarded old Austrian family. I remembered that a man of the same name had belonged to the circle of Schubert’s most intimate friends, and one of the old Emperor’s physicians had been a family member too. When I put our request to Dr B., asking him to accept Czentovic’s challenge, he was obviously taken aback.