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At ten o’clock next morning I called on Messrs. Dewy and Moss. Again Mr. Dewy received me, and again he apologised 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?”

“I beg your pardon,” I said; “it was merely curiosity. I thought I had seen the face somewhere.”

“He was my husband.”

“He is dead, then?”

“Oh, why do you ask? Yes; he died abroad.” She touched her widow’s cap with a shaking finger, and then covered her face with her hands. “I was there–I saw it. Why do you ask?” she repeated.

“I beg your pardon sincerely,” I said; “it was only that the portrait reminded me of somebody–But my business here is quite different. I am come about the yacht Siren which you have advertised for sale.”

She seemed more than ever inclined to run. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper.

“My agents at F– have full instructions about the sale.”

“Yes, but they tell me you have the papers. I may say that I have seen the yacht and gear and am ready to pay the price you ask for immediate possession. I said as much to Mr. Dewy. But the papers, of course–“

“Are they necessary?”

“Certainly they are. At least the certificate of registry or, failing that, some reference to the port of registry, if the transfer is to be made. I should also like to see her warrant if she has one, and her sailmaker’s certificate. Messrs. Dewy and Moss could draw up the inventory.”