, and her slackened speed
suggested that her commander had no reason for showing his heels to a
navy ship--was, perhaps, moved by curiosity to learn why the spiteful
little man-of-war was tearing after him. Whatever the cause might be the
result was that in less than an hour the _Snipe's_ lean black hull was
within a mile of the yacht, and that objects on the deck of the latter
were plainly distinguishable by the aid of Reggie's binoculars.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "there's a woman on board right enough--about
Miss Maynard's height, too. And, good God! she's waving to us like blue
murder. But no, her face gets clearer every second--no, it isn't the
lady we're after."

"We shall soon know what's wrong," said the second-lieutenant. "The
yacht has pretty nearly stopped. She's only keeping enough way on her
for steerage."

The acting-gunner, Ned Parsons, who had also been examining the
mysterious vessel through his own pair of cheap inferior glasses, here
uttered an exclamation of combined incredulity and dismay.

"If you'd be so good, sir, as to let me have a squint through those
binos of yours," he said, "I might be able to tell you something."

Reggie handed over his own splendid pair, the last word in telescopic
art and a present from his mother. They had hardly bridged Parson's
sun-browned nose when they were lowered again, and the gunner turned a
face full of whimsical concern upon his commander.

"Asking your pardon, sir, but it's a funny thing," he said, "but that
gal behaving like a semaphore yonder is my young lady--the one I was
telling you of, seeing as there have been others--Miss Nettle Jimpson,
of Grigg and Winter's drapery warehouse, Weymouth. How the Holy Moses
you've gone and got her mixed up with the lady the Rajah has his eye on
licks me, but what licks me most is how Nettle came to be aboard that
steam yacht. She ought to be in her beauty sleep on Grigg and Winter's
top floor, preparing for a busy day behind the underlinen counter."

"You're sure?" said Reggie, receiving the binoculars back.

"Sure as eggs," responded Parsons. "I could see that she was holding
language towards the little monkey on the bridge, him being the captain,
I reckon. That's Nettle Jimpson all over."

"Well," said Reggie, after a moment's reflection, "if your girl hails
from Weymouth it's fair proof that that is the steamer we want, for
Weymouth was her last port of call."

"Didn't I tell you, sir, that she was a coug