“Well?” said Richard Turlington, turning sharply on Sir Joseph.  “Get on with your story.  What next?”

Thus far he had not troubled himself to show even a decent pretense of interest in his old friend’s perpetually-interrupted narrative.  It was only when Sir Joseph had reached his last sentence—­intimating that the man overboard might turn out in course of time not to be a man of the pilot-boat’s crew—­it was only then that Turlington sat up in his chair, and showed signs of suddenly feeling a strong interest in the progress of the story.

Sir Joseph went on: 

“As soon as we got on deck, we saw the man in the water, astern.  Our vessel was hove up in the wind, and the boat was lowered.  The master and one of the men took the oars.  All told, our crew were seven in number.  Two away in the boat, a third at the helm, and, to my amazement, when I looked round, the other four behind me making our number complete.  At the same moment Mahogany Dobbs, who was looking through a telescope, called out, ’Who the devil can he be?  The man is floating on a hen-coop, and we have got nothing of the sort on board this pilot-boat.’”

The one person present who happened to notice Richard Turlington’s face when those words were pronounced was Launcelot Linzie.  He—­and he alone—­saw the Levant trader’s swarthy complexion fade slowly to a livid ashen gray; his eyes the while fixing themselves on Sir Joseph Graybrooke with a furtive glare in them like the glare in the eyes of a wild beast.  Apparently conscious that Launce was looking at him—­though he never turned his head Launce’s way—­he laid his elbow on the table, lifted his arm, and so rested his face on his hand, while the story went on, as to screen it effectually from the young surgeon’s view.

“The man was brought on board,” proceeded Sir Joseph, “sure enough, with a hen-coop—­on which he had been found floating.  The poor wretch was blue with terror and exposure in the water; he fainted when we lifted him on deck.  When he came to himself he told us a horrible story.  He was a sick and destitute foreign seaman, and he had hidden himself in the hold of an English vessel (bound to a port in his native country) which had sailed from Liverpool that morning.  He had been discovered, and brought before the captain.  The captain, a monster in human form, if ever there was one yet—­”

Before the next word of the sentence could pass Sir Joseph’s lips, Turlington startled the little party in the cabin by springing suddenly to his feet.

“The breeze!” he cried; “the breeze at last!”

As he spoke, he wheeled round to the cabin door so as to turn his back on his guests, and hailed the deck.

“Which way is the wind?”

“There is not a breath of wind, sir.”

Not the slightest movement in the vessel had been perceptible in the cabin; not a sound had been audible indicating the rising of the breeze.  The owner of the yacht—­accustomed to the sea, capable, if necessary, of sailing his own vessel—­had surely committed a strange mistake!  He turned again to his friends, and made his apologies with an excess of polite regret far from characteristic of him at other times and under other circumstances.