“I believe you know something concerning them.  Come, tell me the truth.”

“I admit that I have certain grave suspicions,” he said at last, standing astride with his hands behind his back, his sword trailing on the white deck.  “You say that the yacht was called the Lola—­painted gray with a black funnel.”

“No, dead white, with a yellow funnel.”

“Ah!  Of course,” he remarked, as though to himself.  “They would repaint and alter her appearance.  But the dining saloon.  Was there a long carved oak buffet with a big, heavy cornice with three gilt dolphins in the center—­and were there not dolphins in gilt on the backs of the chairs—­an armorial device?”

“Yes,” I cried.  “You are right.  I remember them!  You’ve surely been on board her!”

“And there is a ladies’ saloon and a small boudoir in pink beyond, while the smoking-room is entirely of marble for the heat?”

“Exactly—­the same yacht, no doubt!  But what do you know of her?”

“The captain, who gave his name to you as Mackintosh, is an undersized American of a rather low-down type?”

“I took him for a Scotsman.”

“Because he put on a Scotch accent,” he laughed.  “He’s a man who can speak a dozen languages brokenly, and pass for an Italian, a German, a Frenchman, as he wishes.”

“And the—­the man who gave his name as Philip Hornby?”

Durnford’s mouth closed with a snap.  He drew a long breath, his eyes grew fierce, and he bit his lip.

“Ah!  I see he is not exactly your friend,” I said meaningly.

“You are right, Gordon—­he is not my friend,” was his slow, meaning response.

“Then why not be outspoken and tell me all you know concerning him?  Frank Hutcheson is anxious to clear up the mystery because they’ve tampered with the Consular seals and things.  Besides, it would be put down to his credit if he solved the affair.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m mystified myself.  I can’t yet discern their motive.”

“But at any rate you know the men,” I argued.  “You can at least tell us who they really are.”

He shook his head, still disinclined, for some hidden reason, to reveal the truth to me.

“You saw no woman on board?” he asked suddenly, looking straight into my eyes.

“No.  Hornby told me that he and Chater were alone.”

“And yet an hour after you left a man and a woman came ashore and disappeared!  Ah!  If we only had a description of that woman it would reveal much to us.”

“She was young and dark-haired, so the detective says.  She had a curious fixed look in her eyes which attracted him, but she wore a thick motor veil, so that he could not clearly discern her features.”

“And her companion?”

“Middle-aged, prematurely gray, with a small dark mustache.”

Jack Durnford sighed and stroked his chin.

“Ah!  Just as I thought,” he exclaimed.  “And they were actually here, in this port, a week ago!  What a bitter irony of fate!”