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.”