To a man whose life has been spent in the uttermost parts of the earth, amid barbaric surroundings, and in furtherance of work of a kind that the civilized world usually denominates dangerous, the seaside life of England must afford scope for wonderment and no small amount of thoughtful consideration. And certainly if there is one place more than another where, winter and summer alike, amid every sort of luxury, the modern Englishman may be seen relaxing his cares and increasing his energies, the name of that place is Bournemouth. Built up amid pinewoods, its beauties added to in every fashion known to the fertile brain of man, Bournemouth stands, to my mind, preeminent in the list of British watering-places.

Leaving Lyndhurst Road, I travelled to this excellent place by a fast train, and immediately on arrival made my way to the office of Messrs. Screw & Matchem with a view to instituting enquiries regarding the yacht they had advertised for hire. It was with the senior partner I transacted my business, and a shrewd but pleasant gentleman I found him.

Upon my making known my business to him, he brought me a photograph of the craft in question, and certainly a nice handy boat she looked.

She had been built, he went on to inform me, for a young nobleman, who had made two very considerable excursions in her before he had been compelled to fly the country, and was only three years old. I learned also that she was lying in Poole harbour, but he was good enough to say that if I wished to see her she should be brought round to Bournemouth the following morning, when I could inspect her at my leisure. As this arrangement was one that exactly suited me, I closed with it there and then, and thanking Mr. Matchem for his courtesy, betook myself to my hotel. Having dined, I spent the evening upon the pier⁠—the first of its kind I had ever seen⁠—listened to the band, and diverted myself with thoughts of her to whom I had plighted my troth, and whose unexpected departure from England had been such a sudden and bitter disappointment to me.

Next morning, faithful to promise, the Enchantress sailed into the bay and came to an anchor within a biscuit throw of the pier. Chartering a dinghy, I pulled myself off to her, and stepped aboard. An old man and a boy were engaged washing down, and to them I introduced myself and business. Then for half an hour I devoted myself to overhauling her thoroughly. She was a nice enough little craft, well set up, and from her run looked as if she might possess a fair turn of speed; the gear was in excellent order, and this was accounted for when the old man told me she had been repaired and thoroughly overhauled that selfsame year.

Having satisfied myself on a few other minor points, I pulled ashore and again went up through the gardens to the agents’ office. Mr. Matchem was delighted to hear that I liked the yacht well enough to think of hiring her at their own price (a rather excessive one, I must admit), and, I don’t doubt, would have supplied me with a villa in Bournemouth, and a yachting box in the Isle of Wight, also on their own terms, had I felt inclined to furnish them with the necessary order. But fortunately I was able to withstand their temptations, and having given them my cheque for the requisite amount, went off to make arrangements, and to engage a crew.

Before nightfall I had secured the services of a handy lad in place of the old man who had brought the boat round from Poole, and was in a position to put to sea. Accordingly next morning I weighed anchor for a trip round the Isle of Wight. Before we had brought the Needles abeam I had convinced myself that the boat was an excellent sailer, and when the first day’s cruise was over I had found no reason to repent having hired her.

And I would ask you here, is there any other amusement to compare with yachting? Can anything else hope to vie with it? Suppose a man to be a lover of human craftmanship⁠—then what could be more to his taste than a well-built yacht? Is a man a lover of speed? Then what more could he wish for than the rush over the curling seas, with the graceful fabric quivering under him like an eager horse, the snowy line of foam driving away from either bow, and the fresh breeze singing merrily through the shrouds, bellying out the stretch of canvas overhead till it seems as if the spars must certainly give way beneath the strain they are called upon to endure!

Is a man a lover of the beautiful in nature? Then from what better place can he observe earth, sky, and sea than from a yacht’s deck? Thence he views the stretch of country ashore, the dancing waves around him, the blue sky flaked with fleecy clouds above his head, while the warm sunshine penetrates him through and through till it finds his very heart and stays there, making a better, and certainly a healthier, man of him.

Does the world ever look so fair as at daybreak, when Dame Nature is still half asleep, and the water lies like a sheet of shimmering glass, and the great sun comes up like a ball of gold, with a solemnity that makes one feel almost afraid? Or at night when, anchored in some tiny harbour, the lights are twinkling ashore, and the sound of music comes wafted across the water, with a faintness that only adds to its beauty, to harmonise with the tinkling of the waves alongside. Review these things in your mind and then tell me what recreation can compare with yachting?

Not having anything to hurry me, and only a small boy and my own thoughts to keep my company, I took my time; remained two days in the Solent, sailed round the island, put in a day at Ventnor, and so back to Bournemouth. Then, after a day ashore, I picked up a nice breeze and ran down to Torquay to spend another week sailing slowly back along the coast, touching at various ports, and returning eventually to the place I had first hailed from.

In relating these trifling incidents it is not my wish to bore my readers, but to work up gradually to that strange meeting to which they were the prelude. Now that I can look back in cold blood upon the circumstances that brought it about, and reflect how narrowly I escaped missing the one event which was destined to change my whole life, I can hardly realize that I attached such small importance to it at the time. Somehow I have always been a firm believer in Fate, and indeed it would be strange, all things considered, if I were not. For when a man has passed through so many extraordinary adventures as I have, and not only come out of them unharmed, but happier and a great deal more fortunate than he has really any right to be, he may claim the privilege, I think, of saying he knows something about his subject.

And, mind you, I date it all back to that visit to the old home, and to my uncle’s strange reception of me, for had I not gone down into the country I should never have quarrelled with him, and if I had not quarrelled with him I should not have gone back to the inn in such a dudgeon, and in that case I should probably have left the place without a visit to the bar, never have seen the advertisement, visited Bournemouth, hired the yacht or⁠—but there I must stop. You must work out the rest for yourself when you have heard my story.

The morning after my third return to Bournemouth I was up by daybreak, had had my breakfast, and was ready to set off on a cruise across the bay, before the sun was a hand’s breath above the horizon. It was as perfect a morning as any man could wish to see. A faint breeze just blurred the surface of the water, tiny waves danced in the sunshine, and my barkie nodded to them as if she were anxious to be off. The town ashore lay very quiet and peaceful, and so still was the air that the cries of a few white gulls could be heard quite distinctly, though they were half a mile or more away. Having hove anchor, we tacked slowly across the bay, passed the pier-head, and steered for Old Harry Rock and Swanage Bay. My crew was for’ard, and I had possession of the tiller.

As we went about between Canford Cliffs and Alum Chine, something moving in the water ahead of me attracted my attention. We were too far off to make out exactly what it might be, and it was not until five minutes later, when we were close abreast of it, that I discovered it to be a bather. The foolish fellow had ventured further out than was prudent, had struck a strong current, and was now being washed swiftly out to sea. But for the splashing he made to show his whereabouts, I should in all probability not have seen him, and in that case his fate would have been sealed. As it was, when we came up with him he was quite exhausted.

Heaving my craft to, I leapt into the dinghy, and pulled towards him, but before I could reach the spot he had sunk. At first I thought he was gone for good and all, but in a few seconds he rose again. Then, grabbing him by the hair, I passed an arm under each of his, and dragged him unconscious into the boat. In less than three minutes we were alongside the yacht again, and with my crew’s assistance I got him aboard. Fortunately a day or two before I had had the forethought to purchase some brandy for use in case of need, and my Thursday Island experiences having taught me exactly what was best to be done under such circumstances, it was not long before I had brought him back to consciousness.

In appearance he was a handsome young fellow, well set up, and possibly nineteen or twenty years of age. When I had given him a stiff nobbler of brandy to stop the chattering of his teeth, I asked him how he came to be so far from shore.

“I am considered a very good swimmer,” he replied, “and often come out as far as this, but today I think I must have got into a strong outward current, and certainly but for your providential assistance I should never have reached home alive.”

“You have had a very narrow escape,” I answered, “but thank goodness you’re none the worse for it. Now, what’s the best thing to be done? Turn back, I suppose, and set you ashore.”

“But what a lot of trouble I’m putting you to.”

“Nonsense! I’ve nothing to do, and I count myself very fortunate in having been able to render you this small assistance. The breeze is freshening, and it won’t take us any time to get back. Where do you live?”

“To the left there! That house standing back upon the cliff. Really I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

“Just keep that till I ask you for it; and now, as we’ve got a twenty minutes’ sail before us, the best thing for you to do would be to slip into a spare suit of my things. They’ll keep you warm, and you can return them to my hotel when you get ashore.”

I sang out to the boy to come aft and take the tiller, while I escorted my guest below into the little box of a cabin, and gave him a rig out. Considering I am six feet two, and he was only five feet eight, the things were a trifle large for him; but when he was dressed I couldn’t help thinking what a handsome, well-built, aristocratic-looking young fellow he was. The work of fitting him out accomplished, we returned to the deck. The breeze was freshening, and the little hooker was ploughing her way through it, nose down, as if she knew that under the circumstances her best was expected of her.

“Are you a stranger in Bournemouth?” my companion asked as I took the tiller again.

“Almost,” I answered. “I’ve only been in England three weeks. I’m home from Australia.”

“Australia! Really! Oh, I should so much like to go out there.”

His voice was very soft and low, more like a girl’s than a boy’s, and I noticed that he had none of the mannerisms of a man⁠—at least, not of one who has seen much of the world.

“Yes, Australia’s as good a place as any other for the man who goes out there to work,” I said, “but somehow you don’t look to me like a chap that is used to what is called roughing it. Pardon my bluntness.”

“Well, you see, I’ve never had much chance. My father is considered by many a very peculiar man. He has strange ideas about me, and so you see I’ve never been allowed to mix with other people. But I’m stronger than you’d think, and I shall be twenty in October next.”

I wasn’t very far out in his age then.

“And now, if you don’t mind telling me, what is your name?”

“I suppose there can be no harm in letting you know it. I was told if ever I met anyone and they asked me, not to tell them. But since you saved my life it would be ungrateful not to let you know. I am the Marquis of Beckenham.”

“Is that so? Then your father is the Duke of Glenbarth?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Never set eyes on him in my life, but I heard him spoken of the other day.”

I did not add that it was Mr. Matchem who, during my conversation with him, had referred to his Grace, nor did I think it well to say that he had designated him the “Mad Duke.” And so the boy I had saved from drowning was the young Marquis of Beckenham. Well, I was moving in good society with a vengeance. This boy was the first nobleman I had ever clapped eyes on, though I knew the Count de Panuroff well enough in Thursday Island. But then foreign Counts, and shady ones at that, ought not to reckon, perhaps.

“But you don’t mean to tell me,” I said at length, “that you’ve got no friends? Don’t you ever see anyone at all?”

“No, I am not allowed to. My father thinks it better not. And as he does not wish it, of course I have nothing left but to obey. I must own, however, I should like to see the world⁠—to go a long voyage to Australia, for instance.”

“But how do you put in your time? You must have a very dull life of it.”

“Oh, no! You see, I have never known anything else, and then I have always the future to look forward to. As it is now, I bathe every morning, I have my yacht, I ride about the park, I have my studies, and I have a tutor who tells me wonderful stories of the world.”

“Oh, your tutor has been about, has he?”

“Dear, yes! He was a missionary in the South Sea Islands, and has seen some very stirring adventures.”

“A missionary in the South Seas, eh? Perhaps I know him.”

“Were you ever in those seas?”

“Why, I’ve spent almost all my life there.”

“Were you a missionary?”

“You bet not. The missionaries and my friends don’t cotton to one another.”

“But they are such good men!”

“That may be. Still, as I say, we don’t somehow cotton. D’you know I’d like to set my eyes upon your tutor.”

“Well, you will. I think I see him on the beach now. I expect he has been wondering what has become of me. I’ve never been out so long before.”

“Well, you’re close home now, and as safe as eggs in a basket.”

Another minute brought us into as shallow water as I cared to go. Accordingly, heaving to, I brought the dinghy alongside, and we got into her. Then casting off, I pulled my lord ashore. A small, clean-shaven, parsonish-looking man, with the regulation white choker, stood by the water waiting for us. As I beached the boat he came forward and said:

“My lord, we have been very anxious about you. We feared you had met with an accident.”

“I have been very nearly drowned, Mr. Baxter. Had it not been for this gentleman’s prompt assistance I should never have reached home again.”

“You should really be more careful, my lord. I have warned you before. You father has been nearly beside himself with anxiety about you!”

“Eh?” said I to myself. “Somehow this does not sound quite right. Anyhow, Mr. Baxter, I’ve seen your figurehead somewhere before⁠—but you were not a missionary then, I’ll take my affidavit.”

Turning to me, my young lord held out his hand.

“You have never told me your name,” he said almost reproachfully.

“Dick Hatteras,” I answered, “and very much at your service.”

“Mr. Hatteras, I shall never forget what you have done for me. That I am most grateful to you I hope you will believe. I know that I owe you my life.”

Here the tutor’s voice chipped in again, as I thought, rather impatiently.

“Come, come, my lord. This delay will not do. Your father will be growing still more nervous about you. We must be getting home!”

Then they went off up the cliff path together, and I returned to my boat.

“Mr. Baxter,” I said to myself again as I pulled off to the yacht, “I want to know where I’ve seen your face before. I’ve taken a sudden dislike to you. I don’t trust you; and if your employer’s the man they say he is, well, he won’t either.”

Then, having brought the dinghy alongside, I made the painter fast, clambered aboard, and we stood out of the bay once more.

The following morning I was sitting in my room at the hotel idly scanning the Standard, and wondering in what way I should employ myself until the time arrived for me to board the yacht, when I heard a carriage roll up to the door.

On looking out I discovered a gorgeous landau, drawn by a pair of fine thoroughbreds, and resplendent with much gilded and crested harness, standing before the steps. A footman had already opened the door, and I was at the window just in time to see a tall, soldierly man alight from it. To my astonishment, two minutes later a waiter entered my room and announced “His Grace the Duke of Glenbarth.” It was the owner of the carriage and the father of my young friend, if by such a title I might designate the Marquis of Beckenham.

“Mr. Hatteras, I presume?” said he, advancing towards me and using that dignified tone that only an English gentleman can assume with anything approaching success.

“Yes, that is my name. I am honoured by your visit. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.”

He paused for a moment, and then continued:

“Mr. Hatteras, I have to offer you an apology. I should have called upon you yesterday to express the gratitude I feel to you for having saved the life of my son, but I was unavoidably prevented.”

“I beg you will not mention it,” I said. “His lordship thanked me sufficiently himself. And after all, when you look at it, it was not very much to do. I would, however, venture one little suggestion. Is it wise to let him swim so far unaccompanied by a boat? The same thing might happen to him on another occasion, and no one be near enough to render him any assistance.”

“He will not attempt so much again. He has learned a lesson from this experience. And now, Mr. Hatteras, I trust you will forgive what I am about to say. My son has told me that you have just arrived in England from Australia. Is there any way I can be of service to you? If there is, and you will acquaint me with it, you will be conferring a great favour upon me.”

“I thank your Grace,” I replied⁠—I hope with some little touch of dignity⁠—“it is very kind of you, but I could not think of such a thing. But, stay, there is one service perhaps you could do me.”

“I am delighted to hear it, sir. And pray what may it be?”

“Your son’s tutor, Mr. Baxter! His face is strangely familiar to me. I have seen him somewhere before, but I cannot recall where. Could you tell me anything of his history?”

“Very little, I fear, save that he seems a worthy and painstaking man, an excellent scholar, and very capable in his management of young men. I received excellent references with him, but of his past history I know very little. I believe, however, that he was a missionary in the South Seas for some time, and that he was afterwards for many years in India. I’m sorry I cannot tell you more about him since you are interested in him.”

“I’ve met him somewhere, I’m certain. His face haunts me. But to return to your son⁠—I hope he is none the worse for his adventure?”

“Not at all, thank you. Owing to the system I have adopted in his education, the lad is seldom ailing.”

“Pardon my introducing the subject. But do you think it is quite wise to keep a youth so ignorant of the world? I am perhaps rather presumptuous, but I cannot help feeling that such a fine young fellow would be all the better for a few companions.”

“You hit me on rather a tender spot, Mr. Hatteras. But, as you have been frank with me, I will be frank with you. I am one of those strange beings who govern their lives by theories. I was brought up by my father, I must tell you, in a fashion totally different from that I am employing with my son. I feel now that I was allowed a dangerous amount of license. And what was the result? I mixed with everyone, was pampered and flattered far beyond what was good for me, derived a false notion of my own importance, and when I came to man’s estate was, to all intents and purposes, quite unprepared and unfitted to undertake the duties and responsibilities of my position.

“Fortunately I had the wit to see where the fault lay, and there and then I resolved that if ever I were blessed with a son, I would conduct his education on far different lines. My boy has not met a dozen strangers in his life. His education has been my tenderest care. His position, his duties towards his fellow-men, the responsibilities of his rank, have always been kept rigorously before him. He has been brought up to understand that to be a Duke is not to be a titled nonentity or a pampered roué, but to be one whom Providence has blessed with an opportunity of benefiting and watching over the welfare of those less fortunate than himself in the world’s good gifts.

“He has no exaggerated idea of his own importance; a humbler lad, I feel justified in saying, you would nowhere find. He has been educated thoroughly, and he has all the best traditions of his race kept continually before his eyes. But you must not imagine, Mr. Hatteras, that because he has not mixed with the world he is ignorant of its temptations. He may not have come into personal contact with them, but he has been warned against their insidious influences, and I shall trust to his personal pride and good instincts to help him to withstand them when he has to encounter them himself. Now, what do you think of my plan for making a nobleman?”

“A very good one, with such a youth as your son, I should think, your Grace; but I would like to make one more suggestion, if you would allow me?”

“And that is?”

“That you should let him travel before he settles down. Choose some fit person to accompany him. Let him have introductions to good people abroad, and let him use them; then he will derive different impressions from different countries, view men and women from different standpoints, and enter gradually into the great world and station which he is some day to adorn.”

“I had thought of that myself, and his tutor has lately spoken to me a good deal upon the subject. I must own it is an idea that commends itself strongly to me. I will think it over. And now, sir, I must wish you good day. You will not let me thank you, as I should have wished, for the service you have rendered my house, but, believe me, I am none the less grateful. By the way, your name is not a common one. May I ask if you have any relatives in this county?”

“Only one at present, I fancy⁠—my father’s brother, Sir William Hatteras, of Murdlestone, in the New Forest.”

“Ah! I never met him. I knew his brother James very well in my younger days. But he got into sad trouble, poor fellow, and was obliged to fly the country.”

“You are speaking of my father. And you knew him?”

“Knew him? indeed, I did. And a better fellow never stepped; but, like most of us in those days, too wild⁠—much too wild! And so you are James’s son? Well, well! This is indeed a strange coincidence. But dear me, I am forgetting; I must beg your pardon for speaking so candidly of your father.”

“No offence, I’m sure.”

“And pray tell me where my old friend is now?”

“Dead, your Grace! He was drowned at sea.”

The worthy old gentleman seemed really distressed at this news. He shook his head, and I heard him murmur:

“Poor Jim! Poor Jim!”

Then, turning to me again, he took my hand.

“This makes our bond a doubly strong one. You must let me see more of you! How long do you propose remaining in England?”

“Not very much longer, I fear. I am already beginning to hunger for the South again.”

“Well, you must not go before you have paid us a visit. Remember we shall always be pleased to see you. You know our house, I think on the cliff. Good day, sir, good day.”

So saying, the old gentleman accompanied me downstairs to his carriage, and, shaking me warmly by the hand, departed.

Again I had cause to ponder on the strangeness of the fate that had led me to Hampshire⁠—first to the village where my father was born, and then to Bournemouth, where by saving this young man’s life I had made a firm friend of a man who again had known my father. By such small coincidences are the currents of our lives diverted.

That same afternoon, while tacking slowly down the bay, I met the Marquis. He was pulling himself in a small skiff, and when he saw me he made haste to come alongside and hitch on. At first I wondered whether it would not be against his father’s wishes that he should enter into conversation with such a worldly person as myself. But he evidently saw what was passing in my mind, and banished all doubts by saying:

“I have been on the lookout for you, Mr. Hatteras. My father has given me permission to cultivate your acquaintance, if you will allow me.”

“I shall be very pleased,” I answered. “Won’t you come aboard and have a chat? I’m not going out of the bay this afternoon.”

He clambered over the side and seated himself in the well, clear of the boom, as nice-looking and pleasant a young fellow as any man could wish to set eyes on. “Well,” I thought to myself, “if all Peers were like this boy there’d be less talk of abolishing the House of Lords.”

“You can’t imagine how I’ve been thinking over all you told me the other day,” he began when we were fairly on our way. “I want you to tell me more about Australia and the life you lead out there, if you will.”

“I’ll tell you all I can with pleasure,” I answered. “But you ought to go and see the places and things for yourself. That’s better than any telling. I wish I could take you up and carry you off with me now; away down to where you can make out the green islands peeping out of the water to port and starboard, like bits of the Garden of Eden gone astray and floated out to sea. I’d like you to smell the breezes that come off from them towards evening, to hear the ‘trades’ whistling overhead, and the thunder of the surf upon the reef. Or at another time to get inside that selfsame reef and look down through the still, transparent water, at the rainbow-coloured fish dashing among the coral boulders, in and out of the most beautiful fairy grottoes the brain of man can conceive.”

“Oh, it must be lovely! And to think that I may live my life and never see these wonders. Please go on; what else can you tell me?”

“What more do you want to hear? There is the pick of every sort of life for you out there. Would you know what real excitement is? Then I shall take you to a new gold rush. To begin with you must imagine yourself setting off for the field, with your trusty mate marching step by step beside you, pick and shovel on your shoulders, and both resolved to make your fortunes in the twinkling of an eye. When you get there, there’s the digger crowd, composed of every nationality. There’s the warden and his staff, the police officers, the shanty keepers, the blacks, and dogs.

“There’s the tented valley stretching away to right and left of you, with the constant roar of sluice boxes and cradles, the creak of windlasses, and the perpetual noise of human voices. There’s the excitement of pegging out your claim and sinking your first shaft, wondering all the time whether it will turn up trumps or nothing. There’s the honest, manly labour from dawn to dusk. And then, when daylight fails, and the lamps begin to sparkle over the field, songs drift up the hillside from the drinking shanties in the valley, and you and your mate weigh up your day’s returns, and, having done so, turn into your blankets to dream of the monster nugget you intend to find upon the morrow. Isn’t that real life for you?”

He did not answer, but there was a sparkle in his eyes which told me I was understood.

“Then if you want other sorts of enterprise, there is Thursday Island, where I hail from, with its extraordinary people. Let us suppose ourselves wandering down the Front at nightfall, past the Kanaka billiard saloons and the Chinese stores, into, say, the Hotel of All Nations. Who is that handsome, dark, mysterious fellow, smoking a cigarette and idly flirting with the pretty bar girl? You don’t know him, but I do! There’s indeed a history for you. You didn’t notice, perhaps, that rakish schooner that came to anchor in the bay early in the forenoon. What lines she had! Well, that was his craft. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, it is whispered, to try for pearl in prohibited Dutch waters. Can’t you imagine her slinking round the islands, watching for the patrolling gunboat, and ready, directly she has passed, to slip into the bay, skim it of its shell, and put to sea again. Sometimes they’re chased⁠—and then?”

“What then?”

“Well, a clean pair of heels or trouble with the authorities, and possibly a year in a Dutch prison before you’re brought to trial! Or would you do a pearling trip in less exciting but more honest fashion? Would you ship aboard a rugger with five good companions, and go a-cruising down the New Guinea coast, working hard all day long, and lying out on deck at night, smoking and listening to the lip-lap of the water against the counter, or spinning yarns of all the world?”

“What else?”

“Why, what more do you want? Do you hanker after a cruise aboard a stinking beche-de-mer boat inside the Barrier Reef, or a run with the sandalwood cutters or tortoiseshell gatherers to New Guinea; or do you want to go ashore again and try an overlanding trip half across the continent, riding behind your cattle all day long, and standing your watch at night under dripping boughs, your teeth chattering in your head, waiting for the bulls to break, while every moment you expect to hear the Bunyip calling in that lonely water-hole beyond the fringe of Mulga scrub?”

“You make me almost mad with longing.”

“And yet, somehow, it doesn’t seem so fine when you’re at it. It’s when you come to look back upon it all from a distance of twelve thousand miles that you feel its real charm. Then it calls to you to return in every rustle of the leaves ashore, in the blue of the sky above, in the ripple of the waves upon the beach. And it eats into your heart, so that you begin to think you will never be happy till you’re back in the old tumultuous devil-may-care existence again.”

“What a life you’ve led! And how much more to be envied it seems than the dull monotony of our existence here in sleepy old England.”

“Don’t you believe it. If you wanted to change I could tell you of dozens of men, living exactly the sort of life I’ve described, who would only too willingly oblige you. No, no! Believe me, you’ve got chances of doing things we would never dream of. Do them, then, and let the other go. But all the same, I think you ought to see more of the world I’ve told you of before you settle down. In fact, I hinted as much to your father only yesterday.”

“He said that you had spoken of it to him. Oh, how I wish he would let me go!”

“Somehow, d’you know, I think he will.”

I put the cutter over on another tack, and we went crashing back through the blue water towards the pier. The strains of the band came faintly off to us. I had enjoyed my sail, for I had taken a great fancy to this bright young fellow sitting by my side. I felt I should like to have finished the education his father had so gallantly begun. There was something irresistibly attractive about him, so modest, so unassuming, and yet so straightforward and gentlemanly.

Dropping him opposite the bathing machines, I went on to my own anchorage on the other side of the pier. Then I pulled myself ashore and went up to the town. I had forgotten to write an important letter that morning, and as it was essential that the business should be attended to at once, to repair my carelessness, I crossed the public gardens and went through the gardens to the post office to send a telegram.

I must tell you here that since my meeting with Mr. Baxter, the young Marquis’s tutor, I had been thinking a great deal about him, and the more I thought the more certain I became that we had met before. To tell the truth, a great distrust of the man was upon me. It was one of those peculiar antipathies that no one can explain. I did not like his face, and I felt sure that he did not boast any too much love for me.

As my thoughts were still occupied with him, my astonishment may be imagined, on arriving at the building, at meeting him face to face upon the steps. He seemed much put out at seeing me, and hummed and hawed over his “Good afternoon” for all the world as if I had caught him in the middle of some guilty action.

Returning his salutation, I entered the building and looked about me for a desk at which to write my wire. There was only one vacant, and I noticed that the pencil suspended on the string was still swinging to and fro as it had been dropped. Now Baxter had only just left the building, so there could be no possible doubt that it was he who had last used the stand. I pulled the form towards me and prepared to write. But as I did so I noticed that the previous writer had pressed so hard upon his pencil that he had left the exact impression of his message plainly visible upon the pad. It ran as follows:

Letter received. You omitted Reverend. The train is laid, but a new element of danger has arisen.

It was addressed to “Nikola, Green Sailor Hotel, East India Dock Road, London,” and was signed “Nineveh.”

The message was so curious that I looked at it again, and the longer I looked the more certain I became that Baxter was the sender. Partly because its wording interested me, and partly for another reason which will become apparent later on, I inked the message over, tore it from the pad, and placed it carefully in my pocketbook. One thing at least was certain, and that was, if Baxter were the sender, there was something underhand going on. If he were not, well, then there could be no possible harm in my keeping the form as a little souvenir of a rather curious experience.

I wrote my own message, and having paid for it left the office. But I was not destined to have the society of my own thoughts for long. Hardly had I reached the Invalids’ Walk before I felt my arm touched. To my supreme astonishment I found myself again confronted by Mr. Baxter. He was now perfectly calm and greeted me with extraordinary civility.

“Mr. Hatteras, I believe,” he said. “I think I had the pleasure of meeting you on the sands a few days ago. What a beautiful day it is, isn’t it? Are you proceeding this way? Yes? Then perhaps I may be permitted the honour of walking a short distance with you.”

“With pleasure,” I replied. “I am going up the cliff to my hotel, and I shall be glad of your company. I think we met in the telegraph office just now.”

“In the post office, I think. I had occasion to go in there to register a letter.”

His speech struck me as remarkable. My observation was so trivial that it hardly needed an answer, and yet not only did he vouchsafe me one, but he corrected my statement and volunteered a further one on his own account. What reason could he have for wanting to make me understand that he had gone in there to post a letter? What would it have mattered to me if he had been there, as I suggested, to send a telegram?

“Mr. Baxter,” I thought to myself, “I’ve got a sort of conviction that you’re not the man you pretend to be, and what’s more I’d like to bet a shilling to a halfpenny that, if the truth were only known, you’re our mysterious friend Nineveh.”

We walked for some distance in silence. Presently my companion began to talk again⁠—this time, however, in a new strain and perhaps with a little more caution.

“You have been a great traveller, I understand, Mr. Hatteras.”

“A fairly great one, Mr. Baxter. You also, I am told, have seen something of the world.”

“A little⁠—very little.”

“The South Seas, I believe. D’you know Papeete?”

“I have been there.”

“D’you know New Guinea at all?”

“No. I was never near it. I am better acquainted with the Far East⁠—China, Japan, etc.”

Suddenly something, I shall never be able to tell what, prompted me to say:

“And the Andamans?”

The effect on my companion was as sudden as it was extraordinary. For a moment he staggered on the path like a drunken man; his face grew ashen pale, and he had to give utterance to a hoarse choking sound before be could get out a word. Then he said:

“No⁠—no⁠—you are quite mistaken, I assure you. I never knew the Andamans.”

Now, on the Andamans, as all the world knows, are located the Indian penal establishments, and noting his behaviour, I became more and more convinced in my own mind that there was some mystery about Mr. Baxter that had yet to be explained. I had still a trump card to play.

“I’m afraid you are not very well, Mr. Baxter,” I said at length “Perhaps the heat is too much for you, or we are walking too fast? This is my hotel. Won’t you come inside and take a glass of wine or something to revive you?”

He nodded his head eagerly. Large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and I saw that he was quite unstrung.

“I am not well⁠—not at all well.”

As soon as we reached the smoking-room I rang for two brandies and sodas. When they arrived he drank his off almost at a gulp, and in a few seconds was pretty well himself again.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Hatteras,” he said. “I think we must have walked up the hill a little too fast for my strength. Now, I must be going back to the town. I find I have forgotten something.” Almost by instinct I guessed his errand. He was going to dispatch another telegram. Resolved to try the effect of one parting shot, I said:

“Perhaps you do not happen to be going near the telegraph office again? If you are, should I be taxing your kindness too much if I asked you to leave a message there for me? I find I have forgotten one.”

He bowed and simply said:

“With much pleasure.”

He pronounced it “pleasure,” and as he said it he licked his lips in his usual self-satisfied fashion. I wondered how he would conduct himself when he saw the message I was going to write.

Taking a form from a table near where I sat, I wrote the following:

John Nicholson, Langham Hotel, London.
The train is laid, but a new danger has arisen. Hatteras.

Blotting it carefully, I gave it into his hands, at the same time asking him to read it, lest my writing should not be decipherable and any question might be asked concerning it. As he read I watched his face intently. Never shall I forget the expression that swept over it. I had scored a complete victory. The shaft went home. But only for an instant. With wonderful alacrity he recovered himself and, shaking me feebly by the hand, bade me goodbye, promising to see that my message was properly delivered.

When he had gone I laid myself back in my chair for a good think. The situation was a peculiar one in every way. If he were up to some devilry I had probably warned him. If not, why had he betrayed himself so openly?

Half an hour later an answer to my first telegram arrived, and, such is the working of Fate, it necessitated my immediate return to London. I had been thinking of going for some days past, but had put it off. Now it was decided for me.

As I did not know whether I should return to Bournemouth again, I determined to call upon the Marquis to bid him goodbye. Accordingly, donning my hat, I set off for the house.

Now if Burke may be believed, the Duke of Glenbarth possesses houses in half the counties of the kingdom; but I am told his seaside residence takes precedence of them all in his affections. Standing well out on the cliffs, it commands a lovely view of the bay⁠—looks toward the Purbeck Hills on the right, and the Isle of Wight and Hengistbury Head on the left. The house itself, as far as I could see, left nothing to be desired, and the grounds had been beautified in the highest form of landscape gardening.

I found my friend and his father in a summerhouse upon the lawn. Both appeared unaffectedly glad to see me, and equally sorry to hear that I had come to bid them goodbye. Mr. Baxter was not visible, and it was with no little surprise I learned that he, too, was contemplating a trip to the metropolis.

“I hope, if ever you visit Bournemouth again, you will come and see us,” said the Duke as I rose to leave.

“Thank you,” said I, “and I hope if ever your son visits Australia you will permit me to be of some service to him.”

“You are very kind. I will bear your offer in mind.”

Shaking hands with them both, I bade them goodbye, and went out through the gate.

But I was not to escape without an interview with my clerical friend after all. As I left the grounds and turned into the public road I saw a man emerge from a little wicket gate some fifty yards or so further down the hedge. From the way he made his appearance, it was obvious he had been waiting for me to leave the house.

It was, certainly enough, my old friend Baxter. As I came up with him he said, with the same sanctimonious grin that usually encircled his mouth playing round it now:

“A nice evening for a stroll, Mr. Hatteras.”

“A very nice evening, as you say, Mr. Baxter.”

“May I intrude myself upon your privacy for five minutes?”

“With pleasure. What is your business?”

“Of small concern to you, sir, but of immense importance to me. Mr. Hatteras, I have it in my mind that you do not like me.”

“I hope I have not given you cause to think so. Pray what can have put such a notion into your head?”

I half hoped that he would make some allusion to the telegram he had dispatched for me that morning, but he was far too cunning for that. He looked me over and over out of his small ferrety eyes before he replied:

“I cannot tell you why I think so, Mr. Hatteras, but instinct generally makes us aware when we are not quite all we might be to other people. Forgive me for speaking in this way to you, but you must surely see how much it means to me to be on good terms with friends of my employer’s family.”

“You are surely not afraid lest I should prejudice the Duke against you?”

“Not afraid, Mr. Hatteras! I have too much faith in your sense of justice to believe that you would willingly deprive me of my means of livelihood⁠—for of course that is what it would mean in plain English.”

“Then you need have no fear. I have just said goodbye to them. I am going away tomorrow, and it is very improbable that I shall ever see either of them again.”

“You are leaving for Australia?”

“Very shortly, I think.”

“I am much obliged to you for the generous way you have treated me. I shall never forget your kindness.”

“Pray don’t mention it. Is that all you have to say to me? Then good evening!”

“Good evening, Mr. Hatteras.” He turned back by another gate into the garden, and I continued my way along the cliff, reflecting on the curious interview I had just passed through. If the truth must be known, I was quite at a loss to understand what he meant by it! Why had he asked that question about Australia? Was it only chance that had led him to put it, or was it done designedly, and for some reason connected with that mysterious “Train” mentioned in his telegram?

I was to find out later, and only too thoroughly!