The dark, good-looking fellow in his smart summer uniform leaned over the bulwark, and said, with a slight sigh, I thought—­

“Yes.  This is my last trip to Leghorn, I think.  I go back in November, and I really shan’t be sorry.  Three years is a long time to be away from home.  You go next week, you say?  Lucky devil to be your own master!  I only wish I were.  Year after year on this deck grows confoundedly wearisome, I can tell you, my dear fellow.”

Durnford was a man who had written much on naval affairs, and was accepted as an expert on several branches of the service.  The Admiralty do not encourage officers to write, but in Durnford’s case it was recognized that of naval topics he possessed a knowledge that was of use, and, therefore, he was allowed to write books and to contribute critical articles to the service magazines.  He had studied the relative strengths of foreign navies, and by keeping his eyes always open he had, on many occasions, been able to give valuable information to our naval attaches at the Embassies.  More than once, however, his trenchant criticism of the action of the naval lords had brought upon his head rebukes from head-quarters; nevertheless, so universally was his talent as a naval expert recognized, that to write had never been forbidden him as it had been to certain others.

“How’s Hutcheson?” he asked a moment later, turning and facing me.

“Fit as a fiddle.  Just back from his month’s leave at home.  His wife is still up in Scotland, however.  She can’t stand Leghorn in summer.”

“No wonder.  It’s a perfect furnace when the weather begins to stoke up.”

“I go as soon as you’ve sailed.  I only stayed because I promised to act for Frank,” I said.  “And, by Jove! a funny thing occurred while I was in charge—­a real first-class mystery.”

“A mystery—­tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly interested.

“Well, a yacht—­a pirate yacht, I believe it was—­called here.”

“A pirate!  What do you mean?”

“Well, she was English.  Listen, and I’ll tell you the whole affair.  It’ll be something fresh to tell at mess, for I know how you chaps get played out of conversation.”

“By Jove, yes!  Things slump when we get no mail.  But go on—­I’m listening,” he added, as an orderly came up, saluted, and handed him a paper.

“Well,” I said, “let’s cross to the other side.  I don’t want the sentry to overhear.”

“As you like—­but why such mystery?” he asked as we walked together to the other side of the spick-and-span quarter-deck of the gigantic battleship.

“You’ll understand when I tell you the story.”  And then, standing together beneath the awning, I related to my friend the whole of the curious circumstances, just as I have recorded them in the foregoing pages.

“Confoundedly funny!” he remarked with his dark eyes fixed upon mine.  “A mystery, by Jove, it is!  What name did the yacht bear?”