Lady Mabel and Simon Carne rose and accompanied him to the starboard bulwarks. A smart white launch with the Westphalian flag flying at her stern, had left the Royal yacht and was steaming quickly towards them. A few minutes later it had reached the companion ladder, and Lord Tremorden had descended to welcome his Royal guest. When they reached the deck together, his Majesty shook hands with Lady Tremorden, and afterwards with Lady Mabel and Simon Carne. "I must congratulate you most heartily, Mr. Carne," he said, "on your victory to-day. You gave us an excellent race, and though I had the misfortune to be beaten by thirty seconds, still I have the satisfaction of knowing that the winner was a better boat in every way than my own." "Your Majesty adds to the sweets of victory by your generous acceptance of defeat," Carne replied "But I must confess that I owe my success in no way to my own ability. The boat was chosen for me by another, and I have not even the satisfaction of saying that I sailed her myself." "Nevertheless she is your property, and you will go down to posterity famous in yachting annals as the winner of the Queen’s Cup in this justly celebrated year." With this compliment his Majesty turned to his hostess and entered into conversation with her, leaving his aide-de-camp free to discuss the events of the day with Lady Mabel. When he took his departure half-an-hour later, Carne also bade his friends good-bye, and, descending to his boat, was rowed away to his own beautiful steam yacht, which was anchored a few cables’ length away from the Imperial craft. He was to dine on board the latter vessel that evening. On gaining the deck he was met by Belton, his valet, who carried a telegram in his hand. As soon as he received it, Carne opened it and glanced at the contents. "Come below," he said quickly. "There is news enough here to give us something to think of for hours to come." Reaching the saloon, which was decorated with all the daintiness of the upholsterer’s art, he led the way to the cabin he had arranged as a study. Having entered it, he shut and locked the door. "It’s all up, Belton," he said. "The comedy has lasted long enough, and now it only remains for us to speak the tag, and after that to ring the curtain down as speedily as may be." "I am afraid, sir, I do not quite take your meaning," said Belton. "Would you mind telling me what has happened?" "I can do that in a very few words," the other answered. "This cablegram is from Trincomalee Liz, and was dispatched from Bombay yesterday. Read it for yourself." He handed the paper to his servant, who read it carefully aloud: To CARNE, Portchester House, Park Lane, London.--Bradfield left fortnight since. Have ascertained that you are the object. TRINCOMALEE. "This is very serious, sir," said the other, when he had finished.