Reggie was of the same opinion on both points. The yacht certainly was not travelling so fast as when first sighted, and her slackened speed suggested that her commander had no reason for showing his heels to a navy ship--was, perhaps, moved by curiosity to learn why the spiteful little man-of-war was tearing after him. Whatever the cause might be the result was that in less than an hour the _Snipe's_ lean black hull was within a mile of the yacht, and that objects on the deck of the latter were plainly distinguishable by the aid of Reggie's binoculars. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "there's a woman on board right enough--about Miss Maynard's height, too. And, good God! she's waving to us like blue murder. But no, her face gets clearer every second--no, it isn't the lady we're after." "We shall soon know what's wrong," said the second-lieutenant. "The yacht has pretty nearly stopped. She's only keeping enough way on her for steerage." The acting-gunner, Ned Parsons, who had also been examining the mysterious vessel through his own pair of cheap inferior glasses, here uttered an exclamation of combined incredulity and dismay. "If you'd be so good, sir, as to let me have a squint through those binos of yours," he said, "I might be able to tell you something." Reggie handed over his own splendid pair, the last word in telescopic art and a present from his mother. They had hardly bridged Parson's sun-browned nose when they were lowered again, and the gunner turned a face full of whimsical concern upon his commander. "Asking your pardon, sir, but it's a funny thing," he said, "but that gal behaving like a semaphore yonder is my young lady--the one I was telling you of, seeing as there have been others--Miss Nettle Jimpson, of Grigg and Winter's drapery warehouse, Weymouth. How the Holy Moses you've gone and got her mixed up with the lady the Rajah has his eye on licks me, but what licks me most is how Nettle came to be aboard that steam yacht. She ought to be in her beauty sleep on Grigg and Winter's top floor, preparing for a busy day behind the underlinen counter." "You're sure?" said Reggie, receiving the binoculars back. "Sure as eggs," responded Parsons. "I could see that she was holding language towards the little monkey on the bridge, him being the captain, I reckon. That's Nettle Jimpson all over." "Well," said Reggie, after a moment's reflection, "if your girl hails from Weymouth it's fair proof that that is the steamer we want, for Weymouth was her last port of call." "Didn't I tell you, sir, that she was a cough-drop," rejoined Parsons excitedly. "You can stake your shirt she's bested that dirty little captain somehow. That's why he's stopping for us." "But he isn't stopping for us," chimed in the second-lieutenant, and his dictum was emphasized by his slight lisp. "See, he's started at full-speed, and that means that he has scored the trick, for his rascally packet is fitted with turbine engines. He's been fooling us, sir."