The Haunted Yacht

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　If any one cares to buy the yawl Siren, he may have her for200 pounds, or a trifle less than the worth of her ballast, as lead goesnowadays. For sufficient reasons--to be disclosed in the course of thisnarrative--I am unable to give her builder's name, and for reasons quiteas sufficient I must admit the figures of her registered tonnage(29.56), cut on the beam of her forecastle, to be a fraud. I will beperfectly frank; there is a mystery about the yacht. But I gave400 pounds for her in the early summer of 1890, and thought her dirtcheap. She was built under the old "Thames rule," that is, somewherebetween 1875 and 1880, and was therefore long and narrow to begin with.She has been lengthened since. Nevertheless, though nobody could callher a dry boat, she will behave herself in any ordinary sea, and comeabout quicker than most of her type. She is fast, has sound timbers andsheathing that fits her like a skin, and her mainmast and bowsprit areparticularly fine spars of Oregon pine; her mizzen doesn't count formuch. Let me mention the newest of patent capstans--I put this into hermyself--cabins panelled in teak and pitch-pine and cushioned with redmorocco, two suits of sails, besides a big spinnaker that does notbelong to her present rig, a serviceable dinghy--well, you can see foryourselves without my saying more, that, even to break up, she is worthquite double the money.In what follows I shall take leave here and there to alter a name orsuppress it. With these exceptions you shall hear precisely how theSiren came into my hands.Early in 1890 I determined, for the sake of my health, to take a longerholiday than usual, and spend the months of July, August, and Septemberin a cruise about the Channel. My notion was to cross over to theFrench coast, sail down as far as Cherbourg, recross to Salcombe, andthence idle westward to Scilly, and finish up, perhaps, with a run overto Ireland. This, I say, was my notion: you could not call it a plan,for it left me free to anchor in any port I chose, and to stay therejust as long as it amused me. One fixed intention I had, and one only--to avoid the big regattas. Money had to be considered, and I thought atfirst of hiring. I wanted something between twenty-five and forty tons,small enough to be worked by myself and a crew of three or at most threemen and a boy, and large enough to keep us occupied while at sea.Of course, I studied the advertisement columns, and for some time foundnothing that seemed even likely to suit. But at last in The Field,and in the left-hand bottom corner--where it had been squeezed by thelists of the usual well-known agencies--I came on the following:--

　　"YAWL, 35 tons. For immediate SALE, that fast and comfortablecruiser Siren. Lately refitted and now in perfect conditionthroughout. Rigging, etc., as good as new. Cabin appointments ofunusual richness and taste. 400 pounds. Apply, Messrs. Dewy andMoss, Agents and Surveyors, Portside Street, F--."

　　On reading this I took Lloyd's Yacht Register from its shelf, andhunted for further details. Sirens crowd pretty thickly in theRegister; only a little less thickly than Undines. IncludingSirenes and Sirenas, I found some fourteen--and not a yawl amongstthem, nor anything of her tonnage. There were two more in Lloyd's Listof American Yachts--one a centre-board schooner, the other acentre-board sloop; and, in a further list, I came upon a Siren thathad changed her name to Mirage--a screw-schooner of one hundred andninety tons, owned by no less a person than the Marquis of Ormonde.On the whole it seemed pretty clear that Lloyd knew not of the existenceof this "fast and comfortable cruiser" of thirty-five tons.However, if half the promises of the advertisement were genuine, thechance ought not to be lost for lack of further inquiry. So I sat downthere and then and wrote a letter to the poetically-named Dewy and Moss,asking some questions in detail about the boat, and, in particular,where she was to be seen.The answer came by return of post. The boat had been laid up since theautumn in a sheltered creek of the F-- River, about three-quarters of amile up from the harbour side, where Messrs. Dewy and Moss transactedbusiness. The keys lay at their office, and she could be inspected atany time. Her sails, gear, and movable furniture were stored in a roomyloft at the back of Messrs, Dewy and Moss's own premises. Their clientwas a lady who wished to keep her name concealed--at any rate during thepreliminaries; but they had full power to conduct the sale. The yachtwas a bargain. The lady wished to be rid of it at once; but they mightmention that she would not take a penny less than the quoted price of400 pounds. They would be happy to deal with me in that or any otherline of business; and they enclosed their card.The card bore witness to the extraordinary versatility of Messrs. Dewyand Moss, if to nothing else. Here is the digest of it:--"Auctioneers; Practical Valuers; House and Estate Agents; BusinessBrokers; Ship Brokers; Accountants and Commission Merchants; Servants'Registry Office; Fire, Life, Accident, and Plate Glass InsuranceEffected; Fire Claims prepared and adjusted; Live Stock Insured; Agentsfor Gibson's Non-Slipping Cycles; Agents for Packington's Manures, thebest and cheapest for all crops; Valuations for Probate; EmigrationAgents; Private Arrangements negotiated with Creditors; Old Violinscleaned and repaired; Vice-Consulate for Norway and Sweden."I cannot say this card produced quite the impression which its composersno doubt desired. It seemed to me that Messrs. Dewy and Moss hadaltogether too many strings to their bow. And the railway journey toF-- was a long one. So I hesitated for two days; and on the lateafternoon of the third found myself some three hundred miles from home,standing in a windy street full of the blown odours of shipping, andpulling at a bell which sounded with terrifying alacrity just on theother side of the door. A window was thrown up, right above me, and ahead appeared (of Dewy, as it turned out), and invited me to comeupstairs.Mr. Dewy met me on the landing, introduced himself, and led me into hisoffice, where a fat young woman sat awkwardly upon a wooden chairseveral inches too high for her. Hastily reviewing the manyprofessional capacities in which Mr. Dewy could serve her, I decidedthat she must be a cook in search of a place. The agent gave me theonly other chair in the room--it was clear that in their various featsof commercial dexterity the firm depended very little upon furniture--and balanced himself on the edge of his knee-hole table. He was alittle, round man, and his feet dangled three inches from the floor.He looked honest enough, and spoke straightforwardly."You have come about the yacht, sir. You would wish to inspect her atonce? This is most unfortunate! Your letter only reached us thisafternoon. The fact is, my partner, Mr. Moss, has gone off for the dayto N-- to attend a meeting of the Amateur Bee-keepers' Association--mypartner is an enthusiast upon bee-culture."The versatility of Moss began to grow bewildering. "--and will not beback until late to-night. As for me," he consulted his watch,"I am due in half an hour's time to conduct the rehearsal of a serviceof song at the Lady Huntingdon's Chapel, down the street, where I playthe harmonium."The diversity of Dewy dazed me."You are staying the night at F--?" he said."Why, yes. I sleep at the Ship Inn, but hoped to leave earlyto-morrow.""Of course you could inspect the sails and gear at once; they are in theloft behind." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder."So I understand, but it would be better to see the boat first.""Naturally, naturally. I hope you see how I am placed? You would notdesire me, I feel sure, to disappoint the chapel members who will bewaiting presently for their rehearsal. Stay . . . perhaps you would notgreatly object to rowing up and inspecting the yacht by yourself?Here are the keys, and my boat is at your disposal; or, if you preferit, a waterman--""Nothing would suit me better, if you don't mind my using the boat.""It will be a favour, sir, your using her, I assure you. This way, ifyou please."He jumped down from the table and led the way downstairs, and throughsome very rickety back premises to the quay door, where his boat laymoored to a frape. As I climbed down and cast off, Mr. Dewy pulled outhis watch again."The evenings are lengthening, and you will have plenty of time.Half an hour to high water; you will have the tide with you each way.The keys will open everything on board. By the way, you can't missher--black, with a tarnished gilt line, moored beside a large whiteschooner, just three-quarters of a mile up. You can tie up the boat tothe frape on your return; to-morrow will do for the keys; at yourservice any time after nine a.m. Good evening, sir!"Mr. Dewy turned and hurried back to his client, whose presence duringour interview he had completely ignored.The sun had dropped behind the tall hills that line the western shore ofthe beautiful F-- River; but a soft yellow light, too generously spreadto dazzle, suffused the whole sky, and was reflected on the tide thatstole up with scarcely a ripple. A sharp bend of the stream brought mein sight of the two yachts, not fifty yards away--their invertedreflections motionless as themselves; I rested on my oars and drifted uptowards them, conning the black yawl carefully.She struck me as too big for a 35-tonner, fore-shortened though shelay--a wall-sided narrow boat, but a very pretty specimen of her type.Her dismantled masts were painted white, and her upper boards had beenremoved, of course.Hullo!There was a man standing on her deck.She lay with her nose pointing up the river and her stern towards me.The man stood by her wheel (for some idiotic reason, best known tohimself, her builder had given her a wheel instead of a tiller), whichwas covered up with tarpaulin. He stood with a hand on this tarpaulincase, and looked back over his shoulder towards me--a tall fellow with areddish beard and a clean-shaven upper lip. I was drifting close bythis time--he looking curiously at me--and I must have been studying hisfeatures for half a minute before I hailed him."Yacht ahoy!" I called out. "Is that the Siren?"Getting no answer, I pulled the boat close under the yacht's side, madeher fast, and climbed on board by way of the channels."This is the Siren, eh?" I said, looking down her deck towards thewheel.There was no man to be seen.I stared around for a minute or so; ran to the opposite side and lookedover; ran aft and leaned over her taffrail; ran forward and peered overher bows. Her counter was too short to conceal a man, and her stem hadabsolutely no overhang at all; yet no man was to be seen, nor boat norsign of a man. I tried the companion: it was covered and padlocked.The sail-hatch and fore-hatch were also fastened and padlocked, and theskylights covered with tarpaulin and screwed firmly down. A mouse couldnot have found its way below, except perhaps by the stove-pipe or thepipe leading down to the chain-locker.I was no believer in ghosts, but I had to hit on some theory there andthen. My nerves had been out of order for a month or two, and the longrailway journey must have played havoc with them. The whole thing was ahallucination. So I told myself while pulling the coverings off theskylights, but somehow got mighty little comfort out of it; and I willnot deny that I fumbled a bit with the padlock on the main hatchway, orthat I looked down a second time before setting foot on the companionladder.She was a sweet ship; and the air below, though stuffy, had no taste ofbilge in it. I explored main cabin, sleeping cabins, forecastle.The movable furniture had been taken ashore, as I had been told; but thefixtures were in good order, the decorations in good taste. Not a panelhad shrunk or warped, nor could I find any leakage. At the same time Icould find no evidence that she had been visited lately by man or ghost.The only thing that seemed queer was the inscription "29.56" on the beamin the forecastle. It certainly struck me that the surveyor must haveunder-registered her, but for the moment I thought little about it.Passing back through the main cabin I paused to examine one or two ofthe fittings--particularly a neat glass-fronted bookcase, with a smallsideboard below it, containing three drawers and a cellaret.The bookcase was empty and clean swept; so also were the drawers.At the bottom of the cellaret I found a couple of flags stowed--atattered yellow quarantine-signal tightly rolled into a bundle, and ared ensign neatly folded. As I lifted out the latter, there droppedfrom its folds and fell upon the cabin floor--a book.I picked it up--a thin quarto bound in black morocco, and rather theworse for wear. On its top side it bore the following inscription indingy gilt letters:--

　　JOB'S HOTEL, PENLEVEN,VISITORS' BOOK.J. JOB, Proprietor.

　　Standing there beneath the skylight I turned its pages over, wonderingvaguely how the visitors' book of a small provincial hotel had found itsway into that drawer. It contained the usual assortment of conventionalpraise and vulgar jocosity:--

　　Mr. and the Hon. Mrs. Smith of Huddersfield,cannot speak too highly of Mrs. Job's ham andeggs.--September 15, 1881.Arrived wet through after a 15-mile trampalong the coast; but thanks to Mr. and Mrs.Job were soon steaming over a comfortablefire.--John and Annie Watson, March, 1882.Note appended by a humorist:Then you sat on the hob, I suppose.There was the politely patronising entry:Being accustomed to Wolverhampton, I amgreatly pleased with this coast.--F. B. W.The poetical effusion:Majestic spot! Say, doth the sun in heavenBehold aught to equal thee, wave-washedPenleven? etc.Lighter verse:Here I came to take my ease,Agreeably disappointed to find no fl--Mrs. Job, your bread and butterIs quite too utterly, utterly utter!J. Harper, June 3rd, 1883.The contemplative man's ejaculation:It is impossible, on viewing these Cyclopean cliffs,to repress the thought, How great is Nature,how little Man!(A note: So it is, old chap! and a reproofin another hand: Shut up! can't you seehe's suffering?)The last entry was a brief one:J. MacGuire, Liverpool. September 2nd, 1886.

　　Twilight forced me to close the book and put it back in its place.As I did so, I glanced up involuntarily towards the skylight, as if Ihalf expected to find a pair of eyes staring down on me. Yet the bookcontained nothing but these mere trivialities. Whatever myapprehension, I was (as "J. Harper" would have said) "agreeablydisappointed." I climbed on deck again, relocked the hatch, replacedthe tarpaulins, jumped into the boat and rowed homewards. Though thetide favoured me, it was dark before I reached Mr. Dewy's quay-door.Having, with some difficulty, found the frape, I made the boat fast.I groped my way across his back premises and out into the gaslit street;and so to the Ship Inn, a fair dinner, and a sound night's sleep.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 ofhis partner, who had caught an early train to attend a wrestling matchat 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 yourequire them?""Of course," I said; "the transfer must be regular. We must have hercertificate 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 isCarlingford--a widow--residing at present in Bristol.""This is annoying," said I; "but if she lives anywhere near the TempleMead Station, I might skip a train there and call on her. She herselfdesired no delay, and I desire it just as little. But the papers arenecessary."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 boardthe Siren last night as I rowed up to her?"He gave me a stare of genuine surprise. "A man on board? Whoever hewas, he had no business there. I make a point of looking after theyacht myself."I hurried to the railway station. Soon after six that evening I knockedat 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 lookedabout me--a round table, a horsehair couch, a walnut sideboard withglass panels, a lithograph of John Wesley being rescued from the flamesof his father's rectory, a coloured photograph--As the door opened behind me and a woman entered, I jumped back almostinto her arms. The coloured photograph, staring at me from the oppositewall above the mantelshelf, was a portrait--a portrait of the man I hadseen on board the Siren!"Who is that?" I demanded, wheeling round without ceremony.But if I was startled, Mrs. Carlingford seemed ready to drop withfright. The little woman--she was a very small, shrinking creature,with a pallid face and large nervous eyes--put out a hand against thejamb 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 hadseen 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 capwith 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 portraitreminded 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 roseabove 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 seenthe yacht and gear and am ready to pay the price you ask for immediatepossession. 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, failingthat, some reference to the port of registry, if the transfer is to bemade. I should also like to see her warrant if she has one, and hersailmaker's certificate. Messrs. Dewy and Moss could draw up theinventory."She still hesitated. At length she said, "I have the certificate; Iwill fetch it. The other papers, if she had any, have been lost ordestroyed. She never had a warrant. I believe my husband belonged tono Yacht Club. I understand very little of these matters."She left the room, and returned in five minutes or so with the opendocument in her hand."But," said I, looking over it, "this is a certificate of a vesselcalled the Wasp.""Ah, I must explain that. I wished the boat to change her name with thenew owner. Her old name--it has associations--painful ones--I shouldnot like anyone else to know her as the Wasp.""Well," I admitted, "I can understand that. But, see here, she isentered as having one mast and carrying a cutter rig.""She was a cutter originally. My husband had her lengthened, in 1886, Ithink by five feet, and turned her into a yawl. It was abroad, atMalaga--""A curious port to choose.""She was built, you see, as long ago as 1875. My husband used to sayshe was a broad boat for those days, and could be lengthenedsuccessfully and turned into quite a new-looking vessel. He gave her anentirely new sheathing, too, and all her spars are new. She was notinsured, and, being in a foreign port, it was understood he would haveher newly registered when he returned, which he fully intended.So no alterations were made in the certificate here, and, I believe, herold tonnage is still carved up somewhere inside her."This was true enough. The figures on the certificate, 29.56, were thoseI had seen on the beam in the forecastle."My husband never lived to reach England, and when she came back to F--,though she was visited, of course, by the Custom House officer andcoastguard, nobody asked for her certificate, and so the alterations inher were never explained. She was laid up at once in the F-- River, andthere she has remained."Certain structural peculiarities in the main cabin--scarcely noted atthe time, but now remembered--served to confirm Mrs. Carlingford'splainly told story. On my return to London that night I hunted up someback volumes of Hunt, and satisfied myself on the matter of the Waspand her owner, William Carlingford. And, to be short, the transfer wasmade on a fresh survey, the cheque sent to Mrs. Carlingford, and theyawl Siren passed into my hands.All being settled, I wrote to my old acquaintance, Mr. Dewy, asking himto fit the vessel out, and find me a steady skipper and crew--notwithout some apprehension of hearing by return of post that Dewy andMoss were ready and willing to sign articles with me to steer and sailthe yacht in their spare moments. Perhaps the idea did not occur tothem. At any rate they found me a crew, and a good one; and I spent avery comfortable three months, cruising along the south-western coast,across to Scilly, from Scilly to Cork and back to Southampton, where onSeptember 29, 1891, I laid the yacht up for the winter.Thrice since have I applied to Messrs. Dewy and Moss for a crew, andalways with satisfactory results. But I must pass over 1892 and 1893and come to the summer of 1894; or, to be precise, to Wednesday, the11th of July. We had left Plymouth that morning for a run westward;but, the wind falling light towards noon, we found ourselves drifting,or doing little more, off the entrance of the small fishing haven ofPenleven. Though I had never visited Penleven I knew, on the evidenceof many picture-shows, that the place was well worth seeing.Besides, had I not the assurances of the Visitors' Book in my cabin?It occurred to me that I would anchor for an hour or two in the entranceof the haven, and eat my lunch ashore at Mr. Job's hotel. Mr. Job woulddoubtless be pleased to recover his long-lost volume, and I had no morewish than right to retain it.Job's hotel was unpretending. Mrs. Job offered me ham and eggs and, asan alternative, a cut off a boiled silver-side of beef, if I did notmind waiting for ten minutes or so, when her husband would be back todinner. I said that I would wait, and added that I should be pleased tomake Mr. Job's acquaintance on his return, as I had a trifling messagefor him.About ten minutes later, while studying a series of German lithographsin the coffee-room, I heard a heavy footstep in the passage and a knockat the door; and Mr. Job appeared, a giant of a man, with a giant'sgirth and red cheeks, which he sufflated as a preliminary of speech."Good day, Mr. Job," said I. "I won't keep you from your dinner, butthe fact is, I am the unwilling guardian of a trifle belonging to you."And I showed him the Visitors' Book.I thought the man would have had an apoplectic fit there on the spot.He rolled his eyes, dropped heavily upon a chair, and began to breathehard and short."Where--where--?" he gasped, and began to struggle again for breath.I said, "For some reason or other the sight of this book distresses you,and I think you had better not try to speak for a bit. I will tell youexactly how the book came into my possession, and afterwards you can letme have your side of the story, if you choose." And I told him justwhat I have told the reader.At the conclusion, Mr. Job loosed his neckcloth and spoke--"That book, sir, ought to be lyin' at the bottom of the sea. It waslost on the evening of September the 3rd, 1886, on board a yacht thatwent down with all hands. Now I'll tell you all about it. There was agentleman called Blake staying over at Port William that summer--that'sfour miles up the coast, you know."I nodded.". . . staying with his wife and one son, a tall young fellow, agedabout twenty-one, maybe. They came from Liverpool--and they had a yachtwith them, that they kept in Port William harbour, anchored just belowthe bridge. She would be about thirty tons--a very pretty boat.They had only one hired hand for crew; used to work her themselves forthe most part; the lady was extraordinary clever at the helm, or at thesheets either. Very quiet people they were. You might see them mostdays that summer, anchored out on the whiting grounds. What was shecalled? The Queen of Sheba--cutter-rigged-quite a new boat.It was said afterwards that the owner, Mr. Blake, designed her himself.She used often to drop anchor off Penleven. Know her? Why of courseI'd know her; 'specially considerin' what happened."'What was that?' A very sad case; it made a lot of talk at the time.One day--it was the third of September, '86--Mr. and Mrs. Blake and theson, they anchored off the haven and came up here to tea. I supposed atthe time they'd left their paid hand, Robertson, on board; but it turnedout he was left home at Port William that day, barkin' a small mainsailthat Mr. Blake had bought o' purpose for the fishin'. Well, Mrs. Blakeshe ordered tea, and while my missus was layin' the cloth young Mr.Blake he picks up that very book, sir, that was lyin' on the sideboard,and begins readin' it and laffin'. My wife, she goes out of the roomfor to cut the bread-and-butter, and when she comes back there was thetwo gentlemen by the window studyin' the book with their backs to theroom, and Mrs. Blake lyin' back in the chair I'm now sittin' on, an' herface turned to the wall--so. The young Mr. Blake he turns round andsays, 'This here's a very amusin' book, Mrs. Job. Would you mind myborrowing it for a day or two to copy out some of the poetry?I'll bring it back next time we put into Penleven.' Of course my wifesays, 'No, she didn't mind.' Then the elder Mr. Blake he says,'I see you had a visitor here yesterday--a Mr. MacGuire. Is he in thehouse?' My wife said, 'No; the gentleman had left his traps, but he'dstarted that morning to walk to Port William to spend the day.'Nothing more passed. They had their tea, and paid for it, and went offto their yacht. I saw that book in the young man's hand as he went downthe passage."Well, sir, it was just dusking in as they weighed and stood up towardsPort William, the wind blowing pretty steady from the south'ard.At about ten minutes to seven o'clock it blew up in a sudden littlesquall--nothing to mention; the fishing-boats just noticed it, and thatwas all. But it was reckoned that squall capsized the Queen of Sheba.She never reached Port William, and no man ever clapped eyes on herafter twenty minutes past six, when Dick Crego declares he saw her offthe Blowth, half-way towards home, and going steady under all canvas.The affair caused a lot of stir, here and at Port William, and in thenewspapers. Short-handed as they were, of course they'd no business tocarry on as they did--'specially as my wife declares from her looks thatMrs. Blake was feelin' faint afore they started. She always seemed tome 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 upstandingpair.""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 ashe 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, Iwant you to come with me and take a look at my yacht, that is lying justoutside 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 acutter to begin with.""Lord help us!" then said Mr. Job, in a hoarse whisper. "She's theQueen of Sheba. I'd swear to her run anywhere--ay, or to that queerangle of her hawse-holes."A close examination confirmed Mr. Job that my yacht was no other thanthe lost Queen of Sheba, lengthened and altered in rig. It persuadedme, too. I turned back to Plymouth, and, leaving the boat inCattewater, drove to the Millbay Station and took a ticket for Bristol.Arriving there just twenty-four hours after my interview with Mr. Job, Imade my way to Mrs. Carlingford's lodgings.She had left them two years before; nothing was known of herwhereabouts. The landlady could not even tell me whether she had movedfrom Bedminster: And so I had to let the matter rest.But just fourteen days ago I received the following letter, dated from aworkhouse in one of the Midland counties:--

　　"DEAR SIR,I am a dying woman, and shall probably be dead beforethis reaches you. The doctor says he cannot give me forty-eighthours. It is angina pectoris, and I suffer horribly at times.The yacht you purchased of me is not the Wasp, but the Queen ofSheba. My husband designed her. He was a man of some propertynear Limerick; and he and my son were involved in some of theIrish troubles between 1881 and 1884. It was said they had joinedone of the brotherhoods, and betrayed their oaths. This I am surewas not true. But it is certain we had to run for fear ofassassination. After a year in Liverpool we were forced to flysouth to Port William, where we brought the yacht and lived forsome time in quiet, under our own names. But we knew this couldnot last, and had taken measures to escape when need arose.My husband had chanced, while at Liverpool, upon an old yacht,dismantled and rotting in the Mersey--but of about the same size ashis own and still, of course, upon the register. He bought herof her owner--a Mr. Carlingford, and a stranger--for a very fewpounds, and with her--what he valued far more--her papers; but henever completed the transfer at the Custom House. His plan was, ifpressed, to escape abroad, and pass his yacht off as the Wasp, andhimself as Mr. Carlingford. All the while we lived at Port Williamthe Queen of Sheba was kept amply provisioned for a voyage of atleast three weeks, when the necessity overtook us, quite suddenly--the name of a man, MacGuire, in the Visitors' Book of a small inn atPenleven. We left Penleven at dusk that evening, and held steadilyup the coast until darkness. Then we turned the yacht's head, andran straight across for Morlaix; but the weather continuing fine fora good fortnight (our first night at sea was the roughest in allthis time), we changed our minds, cleared Ushant, and held rightacross for Vigo; thence, after re-victualling, we cruised slowlydown the coast and through the Straits, finally reaching Malaga.There we stayed and had the yacht lengthened. My husband had soldhis small property before ever we came to Port William, and hadmanaged to invest the whole under the name of Carlingford.There was no difficulty about letters of credit. At each port on theway we had shown the Wasp's papers, and used the name ofCarlingford; and at Lisbon we read in an English newspaper about thesupposed capsizing of the Queen of Sheba. Still, we had not onlyto persuade the officials at the various ports that our boat was theWasp. We knew that our enemies were harder to delude, and ournext step was to make her as unlike the Wasp or the Queen ofSheba as possible. This we did by lengthening her and altering herrig. But it proved useless, as I had always feared it would.The day after we sailed from Malaga, a Spanish-speaking seaman, whomwe had hired there as extra hand, came aft as if to speak to myhusband (who stood at the wheel), and, halting a pace or two fromhim, lifted a revolver, called him by name, and shot him dead.Before he could turn, my son had knocked him senseless, and inanother minute had tumbled him overboard. We buried my husbandin the sea, next day. We held on, we two alone, past Gibraltar--I steering and my son handling all the sails--and ran up for Cadiz.There we made deposition of our losses, inventing a story to accountfor them, and my son took the train for Paris, for we knew that ourenemies had tracked the yacht, and there would be no escape for himif he clung to her. I waited for six days, and then engaged a crewand worked the yacht back to F--. I have never since set eyes on myson; but he is alive, and his hiding is known to myself and to oneman only--a member of the brotherhood, who surprised the secret.To keep that man silent I spent all my remaining money; to quiet himI had to sell the yacht; and now that money, too, is gone, and I amdying in a workhouse. God help my son now! I deceived you, and yetI think I did you no great wrong. The yacht I sold you was my own,and she was worth the money. The figures on the beam were cut thereby my husband before we reached Vigo, to make the yacht correspondwith the Wasp's certificate. If I have wronged you, I imploreyour pardon.--Yours truly,

　　"CATHERINE BLAKE."

　　Well, that is the end of the story. It does not, I am aware, quiteaccount for the figure I saw standing by the Siren's wheel. As forthe Wasp, she has long since rotted to pieces on the waters of theMersey. But the question is, Have I a right to sell the Siren?I certainly have a right to keep her, for she is mine, sold to me in dueform by her rightful owner, and honestly paid for. But then I don'twant to keep her!

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *