the Bibbys before the Wilsons, and before that with the General Steam.
I did eight years in the Mediterranean with them, when I was chief
mate."

"And you've never been into Leghorn before?"

"Never, sir."

I dismissed the captain with a distinct impression that he had not told
me the whole truth. That cicatrice did not improve his personal
appearance. He had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I
wished he would bring them to me on the morrow.

Was it possible that an attempt had actually been made to cast away the
yacht, and that it had been frustrated by the master of the felucca, who
had sighted the vessel aground? There certainly seemed some mystery
surrounding the circumstances, and my interest in the yacht and its
owner deepened each hour. How, I wondered, had the captain received that
very ugly wound across the cheek? I was half-inclined to inquire of him,
but on reflection decided that it was best to betray no undue curiosity.

That evening when the fiery sun was sinking in its crimson glory,
bathing the glassy sea with its blood-red light and causing the islands
of Gorgona and Capraja to loom forth a deep purple against the distant
horizon, I took a cab along the old sea-road to the port where, within
the inner harbor, I found the _Lola_, one of the most magnificent
private vessels I had ever seen. Her dimensions surprised me. She was
painted dead white, with shining brass everywhere. At the stern hung
limply the British flag, while at the masthead the ensign of the Royal
Yacht Squadron. The yellow funnel emitted no smoke, and as she lay