ologised for the absence of
his partner, who had caught an early train to attend a wrestling match
at the far end of the county. Mr. Dewy showed me the sails, gear,
cushions, etc., of the _Siren_--everything in surprising condition.
I told him that I meant business, and added--

"I suppose you have all the yacht's papers?"

He stroked his chin, bent his head to one side, and asked, "Shall you
require them?"

"Of course," I said; "the transfer must be regular. We must have her
certificate of registry, at the very least."

"In that case I had better write and get them from my client."

"Is she not a resident here?"

"I don't know," he said, "that I ought to tell you. But I see no harm--
you are evidently, sir, a _bona fide_ purchaser. The lady's name is
Carlingford--a widow--residing at present in Bristol."

"This is annoying," said I; "but if she lives anywhere near the Temple
Mead Station, I might skip a train there and call on her. She herself
desired no delay, and I desire it just as little. But the papers are
necessary."

After some little demur, he gave me the address, and we parted.
At the door I turned and asked, "By the way, who was the fellow on board
the _Siren_ last night as I rowed up to her?"

He gave me a stare of genuine surprise. "A man on board? Whoever he
was, he had no business there. I make a point of looking after the
yacht myself."

I hurried to the railway station. Soon after six that evening I knocked
at Mrs. Carlingford's lodgings in an unattractive street of Bedminster,
that unattractive suburb. A small maid opened the door, took my card,
and showed me into a small sitting-room on the ground floor. I looked
about me--a round table, a horsehair couch, a walnut sideboard with
glass panels, a lithograph of John Wesley being rescued from the flames
of his father's rectory, a coloured photograph--

As the door opened behind me and a woman entered, I jumped back almost
into her arms. The coloured photograph, staring at me from the opposite
wall above the mantelshelf, was a portrait--a portrait of the man I had
seen on board the _Siren!_

"Who is that?" I demanded, wheeling round without ceremony.

But if I was startled, Mrs. Carlingford seemed ready to drop with
fright. The little woman--she was a very small, shrinking creature,
with a pallid face and large nervous eyes--put out a hand against the
jamb of the door, and gasped out--

"Why do you ask? What do you want?"