past the outer
lighthouse in Marseilles bay.

CHAPTER XIX

THE RACE

For a wonder, the Gulf of Lyons was not boisterous. They had a pleasant
journey through the night, and Daubeney assured them that his handsome
yacht was doing twelve knots an hour without being pressed.

Next morning they reached the Straits of Bonifacio, and here they had to
slacken speed somewhat, for the navigation of that rocky channel was
difficult and dangerous. Far behind them they could see a huge steamer
approaching. As the morning wore, this vessel came nearer, and Daubeney,
important now in his capacity of commander, announced that she was the
P. and O. steamship _Ganges_, bound for Brindisi and the East, via the
Straits of Messina.

"She left Marseilles at a late hour last night," he said, "and will call
at Brindisi for the Indian mails."

An idea suddenly struck Brett. "Do you know how fast she is steaming?"
he inquired.

"Oh, about thirteen and a half knots an hour. That is her best rate. The
P. and O. boats are not flyers, you know."

"And does she stop at Messina?"

Daubeney now caught the drift of the barrister's questions.

"I don't think so, but Macpherson, my chief engineer, will probably tell
us."

Macpherson was produced, a bearded and grizzled personage, hailing from
Dundee. Being a Scotchman he would not commit himself.

"I hav'na hear-rd o' the P. and O. ships stoppin' at Messina," he
announced, "but aiblins they wad if they got their price." And "Mac"
would not commit himself any further.

Another hour passed, and the _Ganges_ was now almost alongside. Although
both ships were well through the Straits of Bonifacio, and the _Ganges_
should have followed a course a point or two north of that pursued by
the _Blue-Bell_, she appeared to be desirous to come close to them.

Suddenly the reason became apparent. A line of little flags fluttered up
to her masthead.

"She is signalling us," cried Daubeney excitedly. "Here you," he shouted
to a sailor, "bring Jones here at once."

Jones was the yacht's expert signaller. He approached with a telescope
and a code under his arm. After a prolonged gaze and a careful scrutiny
of the code, he announced--

"This is how the message reads: 'Turks on board.
Stopping Messina.--WINTER.'"

For once the barrister was startled out of his usual quiet
self-possession.

"Winter!" he almost screamed. "Is he there?"

A hundred mad questions coursed throug