CHAPTER I

HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE

"There was a mysterious affair last night, signore."

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Anything that interests us?"

"Yes, signore," replied the tall, thin Italian Consular-clerk, speaking

with a strong accent. "An English steam yacht ran aground on the Meloria

about ten miles out, and was discovered by a fishing-boat who brought

the news to harbor. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats, which

managed after a lot of difficulty to bring in the yacht safely, but the

Captain of the Port has a suspicion that the crew were trying to make

away with the vessel."

"To lose her, you mean?"

The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from

sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true

Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative

of silence.

"Sounds curious," I remarked. "Since the Consul went away on leave

things seem to have been humming--two stabbing affrays, eight drunken

seamen locked up, a mutiny on a tramp steamer, and now a yacht being

cast away--a fairly decent list! And yet some stay-at-home people

complain that British consuls are only paid to be ornamental! They

should spend a week here, at Leghorn, and they'd soon alter their

opinion."

"Yes, they would, signore," responded the thin-faced old fellow with a

grin, as he twisted his fierce gray mustache. Francesco Carducci was a

well-known character in Leghorn; interpreter to the Consulate, and

keeper of a sailor's home, an honest, good-hearted, easy-going fellow,

who for twenty years had occupied the same position under half a dozen

different Consuls. At that moment, however, there came from the outer

office a long-drawn moan.

"Hulloa, what's that?" I enquired, startled.

"Only a mad stoker off the _Oleander_, signore. The captain has brought

him for you to see. They want to send him back to his friends at

Newcastle."

"Oh! a case of madness!" I exclaimed. "Better get Doctor Ridolfi to see

him. I'm not an expert on mental diseases."

My old friend Frank Hutcheson, His Britannic Majesty's Vice-Consul at

the port of Leghorn, was away on leave in England, his duties being

relegated to young Bertram Cavendish, the pro-Consul. The latter,

however, had gone down with a bad touch of malaria which he had picked

up in the deadly Maremma, and I, as the only other Englishman in

Leghorn, had been asked by the Consul-General in Florence to act as

pro-Consul until Hutcheson's return.

It was in mid-July, and the weather was blazing in the glaring

sun-blanched Mediterranean town. If you know Leghorn, you probably know

the Consulate with its black and yellow escutcheon outside, a large,

handsome suite of huge, airy offices facing the cathedral, and

overlooking the principal piazza, which is as big as Trafalgar Square,

and much more picturesque. The legend painted upon the door, "Office

hours, 10 to 3," and the green persiennes closed against the scorching

sun give one the idea of an easy appointment, but such is certainly not

the case, for a Consul's life at a port of discharge must necessarily

be a very active one, and his duties never-ending.

Carducci had left me to the correspondence for half an hour or so, and I

confess I was in no mood to write replies in that stifling heat,

therefore I sat at the Consul's big table, smoking a cigarette and

stretched lazily in my friend's chair, resolving to escape to the cool

of England as soon as he returned in the following week. Italy is all

very well for nine months in the year, but Leghorn is no place for the

Englishman in mid-July. My thoughts were wandering toward the English

lakes, and a bit of grouse-shooting with my uncle up in Scotland, when

the faithful Francesco re-entered, saying--

"I've sent the captain and his madman away till this afternoon, signore.

But there is an English signore waiting to see you."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor

Console."

"All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall,

smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit,

entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul.

When he had seated himself I explained my position, whereupon he said--

"I couldn't make much out of your clerk. He speaks so brokenly, and I

don't know a word of Italian. But perhaps I ought to first introduce

myself. My name is Philip Hornby," and he handed me a card bearing the

name with the addresses "Woodcroft Park, Somerset ------ Brook's." Then

he added: "I am cruising on board my yacht, the _Lola_, and last night

we unfortunately went aground on the Meloria. I have a new captain whom

I engaged a few months ago, and he seems an arrant fool. Very

fortunately for us a fishing-boat saw our plight and gave the alarm at

port. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats and a tug, and after about

three hours they managed to get us off."

"And you are now in harbor?"

"Yes. But the reason I've called is to ask you to do me a favor and

write me a letter of thanks in Italian to the Admiral, and one to the

Captain of the Port--polite letters that I can copy and send to them.

You know the kind of thing."

"Certainly," I replied, the more interested in him on account of the

curious suspicion that the port authorities seemed to entertain. He was

evidently a gentleman, and after I had been with him ten minutes I

scouted the idea that he had endeavored to cast away the _Lola_.

I took down a couple of sheets of paper and scribbled the drafts of two

letters couched in the most elegant phraseology, as is customary when

addressing Italian officialdom.

"Fortunately, I left my wife in England, or she would have been terribly

frightened," he remarked presently. "There was a nasty wind blowing all

night, and the fool of a captain seemed to add to our peril by every

order he gave."

"You are alone, then?"

"I have a friend with me," was the answer.

"And how many of the crew are there?"

"Sixteen, all told."

"English, I suppose?"

"Not all. I find French and Italians are more sober than English, and

better behaved in port."

I examined him critically as he sat facing me, and the mere fact of his

desire to send thanks to the authorities convinced me that he was a

well-bred gentleman. He was about forty-five, with a merry round,

good-natured face, red with the southern sun, blue eyes, and a short

fair beard. His countenance was essentially that of a man devoted to

open-air sport, for it was slightly furrowed and weather-beaten as a

true yachtsman's should be. His speech was refined and cultivated, and

as we chatted he gave me the impression that as an enthusiastic lover of

the sea, he had cruised the Mediterranean many times from Gibraltar up

to Smyrna. He had, however, never before put into Leghorn.

After we had arranged that his captain should come to me in the

afternoon and make a formal report of the accident, we went out together

across the white sunny piazza to Nasi's, the well-known pastry-cook's,

where it is the habit of the Livornese to take their ante-luncheon

vermouth.

The more I saw of Hornby, the more I liked him. He was chatty and witty,

and treated his accident as a huge joke.

"We shall be here quite a week, I suppose," he said as we were taking

our vermouth. "We're on our way down to the Greek Islands, as my friend

Chater wants to see them. The engineer says there's something strained

that we must get mended. But, by the way," he added, "why don't you dine

with us on board to-night? Do. We can give you a few English things that

may be a change to you."

This invitation I gladly accepted for two reasons. One was because the

suspicions of the Captain of the Port had aroused my curiosity, and the

other was because I had, honestly speaking, taken a great fancy to

Hornby.

The captain of the _Lola_, a short, thickset Scotsman from Dundee, with

a barely healed cicatrice across his left cheek, called at the Consulate

at two o'clock and made his report, which appeared to me to be a very

lame one. He struck me as being unworthy his certificate, for he was

evidently entirely out of his bearings when the accident occurred. The

owner and his friend Chater were in their berths asleep, when suddenly

he discovered that the vessel was making no headway. They had, in fact,

run upon the dangerous shoal without being aware of it. A strong sea was

running with a stiff breeze, and although his seamanship was poor, he

was capable enough to recognize at once that they were in a very

perilous position.

"Very fortunate it wasn't more serious, sir," he added, after telling me

his story, which I wrote at his dictation for the ultimate benefit of

the Board of Trade.

"Didn't you send up signals of distress?" I Inquired.

"No, sir--never thought of it."

"And yet you knew that you might be lost?" I remarked with recurring

suspicion.

The canny Scot, whose name was Mackintosh, hesitated a few moments, then

answered--

"Well, sir, you see the fishing-boat had sighted us, and we saw her

turning back to port to fetch help."

His excuse was a neat one. Probably it was his neglect to make signals

of distress that had aroused the suspicions of the Captain of the Port.

From first to last the story of the master of the _Lola_ was, I

considered, a very unsatisfactory one.

"How long have you been in Mr. Hornby's service?" I inquired.

"Six months, sir," was the man's reply. "Before he engaged me, I was

with the Wilsons, of Hull, running up the Baltic."

"As master?"

"I've held my master's certificate these fifteen years, sir. I was with

the Bibbys before the Wilsons, and before that with the General Steam.

I did eight years in the Mediterranean with them, when I was chief

mate."

"And you've never been into Leghorn before?"

"Never, sir."

I dismissed the captain with a distinct impression that he had not told

me the whole truth. That cicatrice did not improve his personal

appearance. He had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I

wished he would bring them to me on the morrow.

Was it possible that an attempt had actually been made to cast away the

yacht, and that it had been frustrated by the master of the felucca, who

had sighted the vessel aground? There certainly seemed some mystery

surrounding the circumstances, and my interest in the yacht and its

owner deepened each hour. How, I wondered, had the captain received that

very ugly wound across the cheek? I was half-inclined to inquire of him,

but on reflection decided that it was best to betray no undue curiosity.

That evening when the fiery sun was sinking in its crimson glory,

bathing the glassy sea with its blood-red light and causing the islands

of Gorgona and Capraja to loom forth a deep purple against the distant

horizon, I took a cab along the old sea-road to the port where, within

the inner harbor, I found the _Lola_, one of the most magnificent

private vessels I had ever seen. Her dimensions surprised me. She was

painted dead white, with shining brass everywhere. At the stern hung

limply the British flag, while at the masthead the ensign of the Royal

Yacht Squadron. The yellow funnel emitted no smoke, and as she lay

calmly in the sunset a crowd of dock-loungers and crimps leaned upon the

parapet discussing her merits and wondering who could be the rich

Englishman who could afford to travel in a small liner of his own--for

her size surprised even those Italian dock-hands, used as they were to

seeing every kind of craft enter the busy port.

On stepping on deck Hornby, who like myself wore a clean suit of white

linen as the most sensible dinner-garb in a hot climate, came forward to

greet me, and took me along to the stern where, lying in a long wicker

deck-chair beneath the awning, was a tall, dark-eyed, clean-shaven man

of about forty, also dressed in cool white linen. His keen face gave one

the impression that he was a barrister.

"My friend, Hylton Chater--Mr. Gordon Gregg," he said, introducing us,

and then when, as we shook hands, the clean-shaven man exclaimed,

smiling pleasantly--

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gregg. You are not a stranger by

any means to Hornby or myself. Indeed, we've got a couple of your books

on board. But I had no idea you lived out here."

"At Ardenza," I said. "Three miles along the sea-shore. To-morrow I hope

you'll both come and dine with me."

"Delighted, I'm sure," declared Hornby. "To eat ashore is quite a treat

when one has been boxed up on board for some time. So we'll accept,

won't we, Hylton?"

"Certainly," replied the other; and then we began chatting about the

peril of the previous night, Hornby telling me how he had copied the two

letters of thanks in Italian and sent them to their respective

addresses.

"Phil blasphemed like a Levant skipper when he copied those Italian

words!" laughed Chater. "He had made three copies of each letter before

he could get all the lingo in accordance with your copy."

"I've been the whole afternoon at them--confound them!" declared the

owner of the _Lola_ with a laugh. "But, of course, I didn't want to make

a lot of errors in spelling. These Italians are so very punctilious."

"Well, you certainly did the right thing to thank the Admiral," I said.

"It's very unusual for him to send out torpedo-boats to help a vessel in

distress. That is generally left to the harbor tug."

"Yes, I feel that it was most kind of him. That's why I took all the

trouble to write. I don't understand a word of Italian, neither does

Chater."

"But you have Italians on board?" I remarked. "The two sailors who rowed

me out are Genoese, from their accent."

Hornby and Chater exchanged glances--glances of distinct uneasiness, I

thought.

Then the owner of the _Lola_ said--

"Yes, they are useful for making arrangements and buying things in

Italian ports. We have a Spaniard, a Greek, and a Syrian, all of whom

act as interpreters in different places."

"And make a handsome thing in the way of secret commissions, I suppose?"

I laughed.

"Of course. But to cruise in comfort one must pay and be pleasant,"

declared the man with the fair beard. "In Greece and the Levant they are

more rapacious than in Naples, and the Customs officers always want

squaring, otherwise they are for ever rummaging and discovering mares'

nests."

"Did you have any trouble here?" I inquired.

"They didn't visit us," he said with a smile, and at the same time he

rubbed his thumb and finger together, the action of feeling paper money.

This increased my surprise, for I happened to know that the Leghorn

Customs officers were not at all given to the acceptance of bribes. They

were too well watched by their superiors. If the yacht had really

escaped a search, then it was a most unusual thing. Besides, what motive

could Hornby have in eluding the Customs visit? They would, of course,

seal up his wines and liquors, but even if they did, they would leave

him out sufficient for the consumption of himself and his friends.

No. Philip Hornby had some strong motive in paying a heavy bribe to

avoid the visit of the _dogana_. If he really had paid, he must have

paid very heavily; of that I was convinced.

Was it possible that some mystery was hidden on board that splendidly

appointed craft?

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

very much of his seamanship--nor will the Board of Trade when his report

reaches them."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hornby, "I was a fool to engage him. From the very first

I mistrusted him, only my wife somehow took a fancy to the fellow, and,

as you know, if you want peace you must always please the women. In this

case, however, her choice almost cost me the vessel, and perhaps our

lives into the bargain."

"You knew nothing of him previously?"

"Nothing."

"And he engaged the crew?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Are they all fresh hands?"

"All except the cook and the two stewards."

I was silent. I did not like Mackintosh. Indeed, I entertained a

distinct suspicion of both master and crew.

"The captain seems to have had a nasty cut across the cheek," I

remarked, whereupon my two companions again exchanged quick,

apprehensive glances.

"He fell down the other day," explained Chater, with a rather sickly

smile, I thought. "His face caught the edge of an iron stair in the

engine-room, and caused a nasty gash."

I smiled within myself, for I knew too well that the ugly wound in the

captain's face had never been inflicted by falling on the edge of a

stair. But I remained silent, being content that they should endeavor

to mislead me.

After dessert had been served we rose, and in the summer twilight, when

all the ports were opened, Hornby took me over the vessel. Everywhere

was abundant luxury--a veritable floating palace. To each of the cabins

of the owner and his guests a bathroom was attached with sea-water or

fresh water as desired, while the ladies' saloon, the boudoir, the

library, and the smoking-room were furnished richly with exquisite

taste. As he was conducting me from his own cabin to the boudoir we

passed a door that had been blown open by the wind, and which he

hastened to close, not, however, before I had time to glance within. To

my surprise I discovered that it was an armory crammed with rifles,

revolvers and ammunition.

It had not been intended that I should see that interior, and the reason

why the Customs officers had been bribed was now apparent.

I passed on without remark, making believe that I had not discerned

anything unusual, and we entered the boudoir, Chater having gone back to

the saloon to obtain cigars.

The dainty little chamber was upholstered in carnation-pink silk with

furniture of inlaid rosewood, and bore everywhere the trace of having

been arranged by a woman's hand, although no lady passenger was on

board.

Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury,

Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard,

and Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand them

to his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments.

I stood glancing around, and as I did so my eyes fell upon a quantity of

photographs, framed and unframed, that were scattered about--evidently

portraits of Hornby's friends. Upon a small side table, however, stood a

heavy oxidized silver frame, but empty, while lying on the floor beneath

a couch was the photograph it had contained, which had apparently been

taken hastily out, torn first in half and then in half again, and cast

away.

Curiosity prompted me to stoop, pick up the four pieces and place them

together, when I found them to form the cabinet portrait of a

sweet-looking and extremely pretty English girl of eighteen or nineteen,

with a bright, smiling expression, and wearing a fresh morning blouse of

white piqué. Her hair was dressed low and fastened with a bow of black

ribbon, while the brooch at her throat was in the form of a heart edged

with pearls. Whether it was her sweet expression, or whether the curious

look in her eyes had attracted my attention and riveted the face upon my

memory, I know not. Perhaps it was the mystery of why it should have

been so hastily torn from its frame and destroyed that held my

attention.

It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who

had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of

casting the fragments away through the port-hole into the water.

I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been

taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street.

About the expression of that pictured face was something which I cannot

describe--a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time both

attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features were

indelibly impressed upon my memory.

Next second, however, hearing Hornby's returning footsteps, I flung the

fragments hastily beneath the couch where I had discovered them.

Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed--and by whom?

The face of the empty frame had been purposely turned towards the

panelling, therefore when he entered he did not notice that the picture

had been destroyed; but after a brief pause, explaining that that cosy

little place was his wife's particular nook, he conducted me on through

the ladies' saloon and afterwards on deck, where we flung ourselves into

the long chairs, took our coffee and certosina, that liqueur essentially

Tuscan, and smoked on as the moon rose and the lights of the harbor

began to twinkle in the steely night.

As I sat talking, my thoughts ran back to that torn photograph. To me it

seemed as though some previous visitor that day had sat upon the couch,

destroyed the picture, and cast it where I had found it. But for what

reason? Who was the merry-faced girl whose picture had aroused such

jealousy or revenge?

I purposely led the conversation to Hornby's family, and learned from

him that he had no children.

"You'll get the repairs to your engines done at Orlando's, I suppose?" I

remarked, naming the great shipbuilding firm of Leghorn.

"Yes. I've already given the order. They are contracted to be finished

by next Thursday, and then we shall be off to Zante and Chio."

For what reason, I wondered, recollecting that formidable armory on

board. Already I had seen quite sufficient to convince me that the

_Lola_, although outwardly a pleasure yacht, was built of steel, armored

in its most vulnerable parts, and capable of resisting a very sharp

fire.

The hours passed, and beneath the brilliant moon we smoked long into the

night, for after the blazing sunshine of that Tuscan town the cool

sea-wind at night is very refreshing. From where we sat we commanded a

view of the whole of the sea-front of Leghorn and Ardenza, with its

bright open-air café-concerts and restaurants in full swing--all the

life and gayety of that popular watering-place.

Presently, when Hornby had risen to call a steward and left me alone

with Hylton Chater, the latter whispered to me in confidence--

"If you find my friend Hornby a little bit strange in his manner, Mr.

Gregg, you must take no notice. To tell the truth, he is a man who has

become suddenly wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice, and I fear

it has had an effect upon his brain. He does very queer things at

times."

I looked at my companion in surprise. He was either telling the truth,

or else he was endeavoring to allay my suspicions by an extremely clever

ruse. Now I had already decided that Philip Hornby was no eccentric, but

a particularly level-headed and practical man. Therefore I instantly

arrived at the conclusion that the clean-shaven fellow who looked so

much like a London barrister had some distinct and ulterior purpose in

arousing within my mind suspicion of his host's sanity.

It was past midnight when, having bade the strange pair adieu, I was put

ashore by the two sailors who had rowed me out and drove home along the

sea-front, puzzled and perplexed.

Next morning, on my arrival at the Consulate, old Francesco, who had

entered only a moment before, met me with blanched face, gasping--

"There have been thieves here in the night, signore! The Signor

Console's safe has been opened!"

"The safe!" I cried, dashing into Hutcheson's private room, and finding

to my dismay the big safe, wherein the seals, ciphers and other

confidential documents were kept, standing open, and the contents in

disorder, as though a hasty search had been made among them.

Was it possible that the thieves had been after the Admiralty and

Foreign Office ciphers, copies of which the Chancelleries of certain

European Powers were ever endeavoring to obtain? I smiled within myself

when I realized how bitterly disappointed the burglars must have been,

for a British Consul when he goes on leave to England always takes his

ciphers with him, and deposits them at the Foreign Office for

safekeeping. Hutcheson had, of course, taken his, according to the

regulations.

Curiously enough, however, the door of the Consulate and the safe had

been opened with the keys which my friend had left in my charge. Indeed,

the small bunch still remained in the safe door.

In an instant the recollection flashed across my mind that I had felt

the keys in my pocket while at dinner on board the _Lola_. Had I lost

them on my homeward drive, or had my pocket been picked?

Carducci, with an Italian's volubility, commenced to hurl imprecations

upon the heads of the unknown sons of dogs who dared to tamper with his

master's safe, and while we were engaged in putting the scattered papers

in order the door-bell rang, and the clerk went to attend to the caller.

In a few moments he returned, saying--

"The English yacht left suddenly last night, signore, and the Captain of

the Port has sent to inquire whether you know to what port she is

bound."

"Left!" I gasped in amazement "Why, I thought her engines were

disabled!"

A quarter of an hour later I was sitting in the private office of the

shrewd, gray-haired functionary who had sent this messenger to me.

"Do you know, Signor Commendatore," he said, "some mystery surrounds

that vessel. She is not the _Lola_, for yesterday we telegraphed to

Lloyd's, in London, and this morning I received a reply that no such

yacht appears on their register, and that the name is unknown. The

police have also telegraphed to your English police inquiring about the

owner, Signor Hornby, with a like result. There is no such place as

Woodcroft Park, in Somerset, and no member of Brook's Club of the name

of Hornby."

I sat staring at the official, too amazed to utter a word. Certainly

they had not allowed the grass to grow beneath their feet.

"Unfortunately the telegraphic replies from England are only to hand

this morning," he went on, "because just before two o'clock this morning

the harbor police, whom I specially ordered to watch the vessel, saw a

boat come to the wharf containing a man and woman. The pair were put

ashore, and walked away into the town, the woman seeming to walk with

considerable difficulty. The boat returned, and an hour after, to the

complete surprise of the two detectives, steam was suddenly got up and

the yacht turned and went straight out to sea."

"Leaving the man and the woman?"

"Leaving them, of course. They are probably still in the town. The

police are now searching for traces of them."

"But could not you have detained the vessel?" I suggested.

"Of course, had I but known I could have forbidden her departure. But as

her owner had presented himself at the Consulate, and was recognized as

a respectable person, I felt that I could not interfere without some

tangible information--and that, alas! has come too late. The vessel is

a swift one, and has already seven hours start of us. I've asked the

Admiral to send out a couple of torpedo-boats after her, but,

unfortunately, this is impossible, as the flotilla is sailing in an hour

to attend the naval review at Spezia."

I told him how the Consul's safe had been opened during the night, and

he sat listening with wide-open eyes.

"You dined with them last night," he said at last. "They may have

surreptitiously stolen your keys."

"They may," was my answer. "Probably they did. But with what motive?"

The Captain of the Port elevated his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and

declared--

"The whole affair from beginning to end is a complete and profound

mystery."