He had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I wished he would bring them to me on the morrow.
Was it possible that an attempt had actually been made to cast away the yacht, and that it had been frustrated by the master of the felucca, who had sighted the vessel aground?
There certainly seemed some mystery surrounding the circumstances, and my interest in the yacht and its owner deepened each hour.

How, I wondered, had the captain received that very ugly wound across the cheek?
I was half-inclined to inquire of him, but on reflection decided that it was best to betray no undue curiosity.
That evening when the fiery sun was sinking in its crimson glory, bathing the glassy sea with its blood-red light and causing the islands of Gorgona and Capraja to loom forth a deep purple against the distant horizon, I took a cab along the old sea-road to the port where, within the inner harbor, I found the _Lola_, one of the most magnificent private vessels I had ever seen.

Her dimensions surprised me.

She was painted dead white, with shining brass everywhere.

At the stern hung limply the British flag, while at the masthead the ensign of the Royal Yacht Squadron.