The mystery of the Lola was still a mystery along the Mediterranean. At every French and Italian port the yacht's false name and general build were written in the police-books, while at Lloyd's the name Lola was marked down as among the mysterious craft at sea.
Chater was missing, while Hornby was abroad. Perhaps they were both cruising again, with their yacht repainted and bearing a fresh name. But why? What had been their motive?
Stirred by the complete mystery which now seemed to enshroud the unfortunate girl, I set before myself the task of elucidating it. Hitherto I had been passive rather than active, but I now realized by that curious letter that at least one woman's life was at stake — that Elma Heath was in possession of some secret.
On leaving Leghorn I had given up all hope of tracing the mysterious yachtsman, and had left the matter in the hands of the Italian police. But, without any effort on my own part, I seemed to have been drawn into a veritable network of strange incidents, all of which combined to form the must complete and remarkable enigma ever presented in the phantasmagoria of life.
Surely no man was ever confronted by so many mysteries at one time as I was at that moment.
Fortunately I had been careful not to show my hand to any one, and this perhaps gave me a distinct advantage. On my journey back to London, as the train swung through Peterborough and out across the rich level lands towards Hitchin, I
