words which might have changed a trivial incident into a sharp tussle
for supremacy.

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "Telegrams are important things,
sometimes. And the messenger is waiting, too."

Thus, under the fire of many eyes, Royson tore open the _petit bleu_,
and read its typewritten contents. The words were brief, but
sufficiently bewildering:

"Better return to England forthwith. I undertake full responsibility
for advice, and guarantee you against loss, Forbes."

"Forbes," undoubtedly, was his uncle's solicitor. But how was it
possible that he should have discovered the name of the yacht and her
port of departure? And why did he, a methodical old lawyer, not only
disobey his client's strict injunctions that no help or assistance of
any sort was to be given to a rebellious nephew, but ignore Dick's own
wishes, and address him as Royson, not as King?

There were twenty questions which might be asked, but staring at the
flimsy bit of paper, with its jerky lettering, would not answer any of
them. And the issue called for instant decision. Already, in obedience
to a signal from Stump, men were standing by the fixed capstans on the
mole ready to cast off the yacht's hawsers. Perhaps Sir Henry Royson
was dying? Even in that unlikely event, of what avail was a title with
nothing a year? Certainly, the solicitor's cautious telegram might be
construed into an offer of financial aid. That reading implied a more
cheerful view than he had taken hitherto of his prospects with regard
to the Cuddesham estate. Yet, the only way in which he could meet Mr.