appealed to him. He had no use for civilization; the froth of society had
no attraction for him. He preferred a deeper draught.

Saltash was thoroughly cosmopolitan in his tastes; he liked amusement,
but he abhorred boredom. He declared that for him it was the root of all
evil. He was never really wicked unless he was bored. And then--_que
voulez-vous_? He did not guide the star of destiny.

"Yes," he said, after a thoughtful silence, "we will certainly put to sea
to-morrow--unless--" he turned his head and threw a merry grin at his
companion--"unless Fortune has any tricks up her sleeve for me, for I am
going ashore for one more fling to-night."

Larpent smoked on immovably, his blue-grey eyes staring out to the vivid
sky-line, his sunburnt face quite imperturbable.

"We shall be ready to start as soon as you come aboard, my lord," he
said.

"Good!" said Saltash lightly. "I may be late, or--more probably--very
early. Leave the gangway for me! I'll let you know when I'm aboard."

He got up as if he moved on springs and leaned against the rail, looking
down quizzically at the man who sat stolidly smoking in the deck-chair.
No two people could have formed a stronger contrast--the yacht's captain,
fair-bearded, with the features of a Viking--the yacht's owner, dark,
alert, with a certain French finesse about him that gave a strange charm
to a personality that otherwise might have been merely fantastic.

Suddenly he laughed. "Do you know, Larpent, I often think to myself what