were circulated by the police to all the Mediterranean ports, with a
request that the yacht should be detained. Yet if the vessel were really
one of mystery, as it seemed to be, its owner would no doubt go across
to some quiet anchorage on the Algerian coast out of the track of the
vessels, and calmly proceed to repaint, rename and disguise his craft so
that it would not be recognized in Marseilles, Naples, Smyrna, or any of
the ports where private yachts habitually call. Thus, from the very
first, it seemed to me that Hornby and his friends had very cleverly
tricked me for some mysterious purpose, and afterwards ingeniously
evaded their watchers and got clean away.

Had the Italian Admiral been able to send a torpedo-boat or two after
the fugitives they would no doubt soon have been overhauled, yet
circumstances had prevented this and the _Lola_ had consequently
escaped.

For purposes of their own the police kept the affair out of the papers,
and when Frank Hutcheson stepped out of the sleeping-car from Paris on
to the platform at Pisa a few nights afterwards, I related to him the
extraordinary story.

"The scoundrels wanted these, that's evident," he responded, holding up
the small, strong, leather hand-bag he was carrying, and which contained
his jealously-guarded ciphers. "By Jove!" he laughed, "how disappointed
they must have been!"

"It may be so," I said, as we entered the midnight train for Leghorn.
"But my own theory is that they were searching for some paper or other
that you possess."