“Some millionaire’s toy,”—­said Mr. Harland—­“She’s floating from the mysterious yacht.”  It was a music full of haunting sweetness and rhythmic melody, and I was not sure whether it was evolved from stringed instruments or singing voices.  By climbing up on the sofa in my sitting-room I could look out through the port-hole on the near sea, rippling close to me, and bringing, as I fancied, with every ripple a new cadence, a tenderer snatch of tune.  A subtle scent was on the salt air, as of roses mingling with the freshness of the scarcely moving waters,—­it came, I thought, from the beautiful blossoms which so lavishly adorned my rooms.  I could not see the yacht from my point of observation, but I could hear the music she had on board, and that was enough for immediate delight.

Leaving the port-hole open, I lay down on the sofa immediately beneath it and comprised myself to listen.  The soft breath of the sea blew on my cheeks, and with every breath the delicate vibrations of appealing harmony rose and fell—­it was as if these enchanting sounds were being played or sung for me alone.  In a delicious languor I drowsed, as it were, with my eyes open,—­losing myself in a labyrinth of happy dreams and fancies which came to me unbidden,—­ till presently the music died softly away like a retreating wave and ceased altogether.  I waited a few minutes—­listening breathlessly lest it should begin again and I lose some note of it,—­then hearing no more, I softly closed the port-hole and drew the curtain.  I did this with an odd reluctance, feeling somehow that I had shut out a friend; and I half apologised to this vague sentiment by reminding myself of the lateness of the hour.  It was nearly midnight.  I had intended writing to Francesca,—­but I was now disinclined for anything but rest.  The music which had so entranced me throbbed still in my ears and made my heart beat with a quick sense of joy,- children—­there may be several inoffensive reasons for his lighting up, and he may think no more of advertisement than you or I.”

“That’s true,”—­assented Dr. Brayle, with a quick concession to his patron’s humour.  “But people nowadays do so many queer things for mere notoriety’s sake that it is barely possible to avoid suspecting them.  They will even kill themselves in order to be talked about.”

“Fortunately they don’t hear what’s said of them,”—­returned Mr. Harland—­“or they might alter their minds and remain alive.  It’s hardly worth while to hang yourself in order to be called a fool!”

While this talk went on I remained silent, watching the illuminated schooner with absorbed fascination.  Suddenly, while I still gazed upon her, every spark with which she was, as it were, bejewelled, went out, and only the ordinary lamps common to the watches of the night on board a vessel at anchorage burned dimly here and there like red winking eyes.  For the rest, she was barely visible save by an indistinct tracery of blurred black lines.  The swiftness with which her brilliancy had been eclipsed startled us all and drew from Captain Derrick the remark that it was ‘rather queer.’