lifted himself to get a clearer view.

"What is it?" asked Theron, peering forth as well.

"Nothing; only Barclay Wendover's yacht is still there. There's been a
hitch of some sort. They were to have left yesterday."

"Is that it--that long black thing?" queried Theron. "That can't be a
yacht, can it?"

"What do you think it is?" answered the other. They were looking at a
slim, narrow hull, lying at anchor, silent and motionless on the drab
expanse of water. "If that ain't a yacht, they haven't begun building
any yet. They're taking her over to the Mediterranean for a cruise, you
know--around India and Japan for the winter, and home by the South Sea
islands. Friend o' mine's in the party. Wouldn't mind the trip myself."

"But do you mean to say," asked Theron, "that that little shell of a
thing can sail across the ocean? Why, how many people would she hold?"

The man laughed. "Well," he said, "there's room for two sets of
quadrilles in the chief saloon, if the rest keep their legs well up on
the sofas. But there's only ten or a dozen in the party this time.
More than that rather get in one another's way, especially with so many
ladies on board."

Theron asked no more questions, but bent his head to see the last of
this wonderful craft. The sight of it, and what he had heard about it,
suddenly gave point and focus to his thoughts. He knew at last what it
was that had lurked, formless and undesignated, these many days in the