“I should hope not.  Did I promise you a—­what do you say?—­tender or Atlantic liner?  But no:  I do not think I told you what sort of vessel we would sail upon for that America.  You did not ask.”

“True, little sister.  But you might have prepared me.  This is a private yacht.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“I won’t say that...”

“It is the little ship of a dear friend, monsieur, who generously permits...  But patience! very soon you shall know.”

To himself Lanyard commented:  “I believe it well!” A door had opened in the after partition, two men had entered.  Above a lank, well-poised body clothed in the white tunic and trousers of a ship’s officer, he recognised the tragicomic mask of the soi-disant Mr. Whitaker Monk.  At his shoulder shone the bland, intelligent countenance of Mr. Phinuit, who seemed much at home in the blue serge and white flannels of the average amateur yachtsman.

From this last Lanyard received a good-natured nod, while Monk, with a great deal of empressement, proceeded directly to Liane Delorme and bowed low over the hand which she languidly lifted to be saluted.

“My dear friend!” he said in his sonorous voice.  “In another hour I should have begun to grow anxious about you.”

“You would have had good reason, monsieur.  It is not two hours since one has escaped death—­and that for the second time in a single day—­by the slenderest margin, and thanks solely to this gentleman here.”

Monk consented to see Lanyard, and immediately offered him a profound salute, which was punctiliously returned.  His eyebrows mounted to the roots of his hair.

“Ah! that good Monsieur Duchemin.”

“But no!” Liane laughed.  “It is true, the resemblance is striking; I do not say that, if Paul would consent to grow a beard, it would not be extraordinary.  But—­permit me, Captain Monk, to present my brother, Paul Delorme.”

“Your brother, mademoiselle?” The educated eyebrows expressed any number of emotions.  Monk’s hand was cordially extended.  “But I am enchanted, Monsieur Delorme, to welcome on board the Sybarite the brother of your charming sister.”

Lanyard resigned limp fingers to his clasp.

“And most public-spirited of you, I’m sure, Captain Monk...  I believe I understood Liane to say Captain Monk?” The captain bowed.  “Captain Whitaker Monk?” Another bow.  Lanyard looked to Liane:  “Forgive me if I seem confused, but I thought you told me Mister Whitaker Monk had sailed for America a week ago.”

“And so he did,” the captain agreed blandly, while Liane confirmed his statement with many rapid and emphatic nods.  “Mr. Monk, the owner, is my first cousin.  Fortune has been less kind to me in a worldly way; consequently you see in me merely the skipper of my wealthy kinsman’s yacht.”

“And your two names are the same—­yours and your cousin’s?  You’re both Whitaker Monks?”