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.”