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:--

"DEAR SIR,--I am a dying woman, and shall probably be dead before
this reaches you. The doctor says he cannot give me forty-eight
hours. It is _angina pectoris_, and I suffer horribly at times.
The yacht you purchased of me is not the _Wasp_, but the _Queen of
Sheba_. My husband