I cross the Mediterranean. Are you sure that little bridge won't move
the instant I step on it? I have quite an aversion to such jim-crack
appliances."

Mrs. Haxton's timidity did not prevent her from noting the arrival of a
telegraph messenger on a bicycle. He was reading the name of the yacht
when she said:

"Come here, boy. Have you a telegram for me?"

She used excellent French, and the messenger handed her the small blue
envelope he was carrying. The lady dropped her eyeglasses, and scanned
the address quickly before she read it aloud.

"Richard Royson, British Yacht _Aphrodite_, Marseilles," she announced,
after a moment's pause.

"Who is Richard Royson?" she went on, looking from Mr. Fenshawe to the
nearest officer of the ship, who happened to be Royson himself.

The incident was so unexpected that Dick reddened and hesitated. Yet he
saw no reason why he should not proclaim himself.

"That message is meant for me, madam," he said.

"For you? But Mr. Fenshawe has just said that your name is King?"
"Baron von Kerber bestowed that name on me, but he acted under a
misapprehension. My name is Royson."

"How odd! How excessively odd!"