Presently the gong sounded, and we went below into the elegantly fitted
saloon, where was spread a table that sparkled with cut glass and shone
with silver. Around the center fresh flowers had been trailed by some
artistic hand, while on the buffet at the end the necks of wine bottles
peered out from the ice pails. Both carpet and upholstery were in pale
blue, while everywhere it was apparent that none but an extremely
wealthy man could afford such a magnificent craft.

Hornby took the head of the table, and we sat on either side of him,
chatting merrily while we ate one of the choicest and best cooked
dinners it has ever been my lot to taste. Chater and I drank wine of a
brand which only a millionaire could keep in his cellar, while our host,
apparently a most abstemious man, took only a glass of iced Cinciano
water.

The two smart stewards served in a manner which showed them to be well
trained to their duties, and as the evening light filtering through the
pale blue silk curtains over the open port-holes slowly faded, we
gossiped on as men will gossip over an unusually good dinner.

From his remarks I discerned that, contrary to my first impression,
Hylton Chater was an experienced yachtsman. He owned a craft called the
_Alicia_, and was a member of the Cork Yacht Club. He lived in London,
he told me, but gave me no information as to his profession. It might be
the law, as I had surmised.

"You've seen our ass of a captain, Mr. Gregg?" he remarked presently.
"What do you think of him?"

"Well," I said rather hesitatingly, "to tell the truth, I don't think