“Have you ever, in any of the ports you’ve been, seen a yacht called the Lola?” I asked eagerly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she might be able to give me information.

“The Lola!” she gasped, and instantly her face changed.  A flush overspread her cheeks, succeeded next moment by a death-like pallor.  “The Lola!” she repeated in a strange, hoarse voice, at the same time endeavoring strenuously not to exhibit any apprehension.  “No.  I have never heard of any such a vessel.  Is she a steam-yacht?  Who’s her owner?”

I regarded her in amazement and suspicion, for I saw that mention of the name had aroused within her some serious misgiving.  That look in her dark eyes as they fixed themselves upon me was one of distinct and unspeakable terror.

What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft?

“I don’t know the owner’s name,” I said, still affecting not to have noticed her alarm and apprehension.  “The vessel ran aground at the Meloria, a dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of her captain was very nearly lost.”

“Yes?” she gasped, in a half-whisper, bending to me eagerly, unable to sufficiently conceal the terrible anxiety consuming her.  “And you—­did you go aboard her?”

“Yes,” was the only word I uttered.

A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the key to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me.

Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly—­

“Why, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Muriel.  Why are you hidden here?  Aren’t you coming?”

We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay involuntarily escaped her.

Next instant I sprang to my feet.  The reason of her cry was apparent, for there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the long open windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis flannels and a Panama hat—­the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby!

I faced him, speechless.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES

Neither of us spoke.  Equally surprised at the unexpected encounter, we stood facing each other dumbfounded.

Hornby started quickly as soon as his eyes fell upon me, and his face became blanched to the lips, while Muriel Leithcourt, quick to notice the sudden change in him, rose and introduced us in as calm a voice as she could command.

“I don’t think you are acquainted,” she said to me with a smile.  “This is Mr. Martin Woodroffe—­Mr. Gordon Gregg.”

I bowed to him in sudden resolve to remain silent in pretense that I doubted whether the man before me was actually my host of the Lola.  I intended to act as though I was not sufficiently convinced to openly express my doubt.  Therefore we bowed, exchanging greetings as strangers, while, carefully watching, I saw how greatly the minds of both were relieved.  They shot meaning glances at each other, and then, as though reassured that I was mystified and uncertain, the man who called himself Woodroffe explained to my companion------