Bevil Goring's baggage, a simple portmanteau, had been opened, examined, passed, and marked with the usual cabalistic figures in white chalk, and the steward, in expectation of a small fee, was re-strapping it, when he suddenly drew Bevil's attention to a remarkably beautiful little vessel, cutter-rigged aft and brig forward, with a breach in her bulwarks, on which a gang of riggers were setting up a new foretopmast and foretopgallant mast, with their hamper, cross-yards, and so forth. She lay alongside the quay, and just astern of the steamer. Impatient only to get ashore and drive to the railway for Rotterdam, Bevil was about to hurry up the gangway, when the steward said, '_That's_ the yacht as you were asking about, sir.' 'Lord Cadbury's--the _Firefly_!' 'Yes.' 'Then she was not sunk?' 'Sunk; no, she couldn't have been, for there she lies, as the Flushing pilot has just told me. _She_ sunk the lugger off the mouth of the Scheldt, and was towed up here to re-fit. And a regular beauty she is.' Bevil Goring felt his heart leap, and, giddy with many emotions, forced his way rather unceremoniously up the gangway, and, with his portmanteau in one hand and his roll of railway-rugs in the other, leaped from the quay on the deck of the yacht. CHAPTER XIV. A SNARE. A smart, sailor-like fellow, wearing an Oxford jacket and naval cap, and who seemed to be in authority, as he was overlooking the riggers, who were swaying up and fidding the topmast, now turned and gave him a glance of inquiry, as much as to say, 'Now, who are you, and what do you want?' 'This is the _Firefly_, Lord Cadbury's yacht?' 'It is.' 'You had an accident at sea--a collision; did anything else happen, were any lives lost?' asked Goring, impetuously and nervously. 'May I ask who is inquiring?' said the other. 'Captain Goring, of the Rifle Brigade.' 'Oh, a friend of his lordship's, I presume?' 'No, though I have met him. And you?' 'I am Tom Llanyard, at your service--his lordship's skipper, but in Her Majesty's service, like yourself, once. Lives were lost--some of the Ostend lubbers, who failed to hang out a light.' 'Any of the yacht?' 'Only Daisy Prune, Miss Cheyne's maid. Poor little girl, I did my best to save her, but a wave took her out of my grasp.' Human grief is perhaps rather selfish; thus it was rather a relief to Goring when he heard that the poor human life lost was that of 'only Daisy Prune.' 'Miss Cheyne?' 'Is well, or was well when she left the yacht three weeks ago, but Sir Ranald was seriously injured by a swinging block. Step below, Captain Goring, and have a glass of wine. You look fagged.' 'Thanks,' replied Goring, who was giddy again with the mere revulsion of feeling, and felt an emotion of great thankfulness that he had so suddenly, so unexpectedly lighted upon the direct track of those he was in search of. Hitherto he had only looked forward to tidings--if any--of death, not life, and it might be of unhappiness.