In their cabin, Anthony Stark reclined in the receiving room, hands folded over his stomach and legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. His eyes were closed as if he were in deep contemplation still over this most unsettling case, but a regular and close observer might have spotted the tiniest of self-satisfied smirks on his lips. Momentarily, he cocked a twinkling eye at his companion, his excitement contained in that one look then gone when he finally raised his head with a relaxed sigh and expectant raise of his eyebrows. It was certainly a touch of fortune that Stark had found himself so occupied on what might have been a long and dreary trip, so he was not troubled that the matter was such a simple one. It kept boredom, and with it certainly Rogers' long-suffering irritation with him at bay, and they could share in the thrill of the mystery, as was only the best arrangement.
"Tell me," Stark requested, drawing restless fingers through his beard, "what do you make of the matter, Rogers?" Surely even his taciturn comrade had made some sense of facts as straightforward as these. Stark was more troubled by the late arrival of their tea. It was only expected that their guest be tardy; she was very concerned with presenting a certain image, and it understandably became her.