“Well, sir, it was just dusking in as they weighed and stood up towards Port William, the wind blowing pretty steady from the south’ard.  At about ten minutes to seven o’clock it blew up in a sudden little squall—­nothing to mention; the fishing-boats just noticed it, and that was all.  But it was reckoned that squall capsized the Queen of Sheba.  She never reached Port William, and no man ever clapped eyes on her after twenty minutes past six, when Dick Crego declares he saw her off the Blowth, half-way towards home, and going steady under all canvas.  The affair caused a lot of stir, here and at Port William, and in the newspapers.  Short-handed as they were, of course they’d no business to carry on as they did—­’specially as my wife declares from her looks that Mrs. Blake was feelin’ faint afore they started.  She always seemed to me a weak, timmersome woman at the best; small and ailin’ to look at.”

“And Mr. Blake?”

“Oh, he was a strong-made gentleman:  tall, with a big red beard.”

“The son?”

“Took after his father, only he hadn’t any beard; a fine upstanding pair.”

“And no trace was ever found of them?”

“Not a stick nor a shred.”

“But about this Visitors’ Book?  You’ll swear they took it with them?  See, there’s not a stain of salt-water upon it.”

“No, there isn’t; but I’ll swear young Mr. Blake had it in his hand as he went from my door.”

I said, “Mr. Job, I’ve kept you already too long from your dinner.  Go and eat, and ask them to send in something for me.  Afterwards, I want you to come with me and take a look at my yacht, that is lying just outside the haven.”

As we started from the shore Mr. Job, casting his eyes over the Siren, remarked, “That’s a very pretty yawl of yours, sir.”  As we drew nearer, he began to eye her uneasily.

“She has been lengthened some five or six feet,” I said; “she was a cutter to begin with.”

“Lord help us!” then said Mr. Job, in a hoarse whisper.  “She’s the Queen of Sheba.  I’d swear to her run anywhere—­ay, or to that queer angle of her hawse-holes.”

A close examination confirmed Mr. Job that my yacht was no other than the lost Queen of Sheba, lengthened and altered in rig.  It persuaded me, too.  I turned back to Plymouth, and, leaving the boat in Cattewater, drove to the Millbay Station and took a ticket for Bristol.  Arriving there just twenty-four hours after my interview with Mr. Job, I made my way to Mrs. Carlingford’s lodgings.

She had left them two years before; nothing was known of her whereabouts.  The landlady could not even tell me whether she had moved from Bedminster:  And so I had to let the matter rest.

But just fourteen days ago I received the following letter, dated from a workhouse in one of the Midland counties:—­