"Wyndhams' was founded in the days of the slavers and privateers and has traded in West Africa and South America ever since. The house was famous, but its decline began when steamers knocked out the sailing ships. We stuck to the old vessels and own one or two small schooners yet, though they're only used for collecting cargo at beaches steamboats do not touch. Some of the documents I've recently studied tell a romantic tale. The Wyndhams were all adventurers and a number did not die in bed. One or two vanished abroad. As perhaps you know, my uncle Rupert did." "I heard something about this," said Marston. "What happened?" "Nobody knows. He left the West Indian factory; sailed off in a canoe and was not seen again. Books and money were in order and his health was pretty good. There was no explanation; he vanished, that's all. I saw him once in England and thought him a sober business man. One got no hint of wildness, but the house's records indicate a vein of romantic extravagance in my ancestors. For all that, my father was a quiet country parson and I have felt nothing of the kind." Marston pondered. He knew Harry Wyndham rather well and had noted, in moments of excitement and strain, a curious recklessness that was perhaps not altogether normal. For example, there was the race when _Red Rose_ and another yacht met close-hauled. _Red Rose_ was on the port tack, and the rule was she must give way, but, until the last minute, Harry sat unmoved at the tiller. Marston remembered the piled-up foam about the plunging hulls as the yachts converged, the slanted pyramids of sail that looked as if they must shock, and the horrible tension he had felt. Then, when collision was imminent, Wyndham gave the other room and afterwards laughed. "I was tempted to find out how it would feel if we rammed her," he confessed. This, however, was some time since, and Marston did not dwell on the incident. His temperament was essentially normal. "No sign of a breeze from the east yet," he said. "All the same, it will come," Wyndham rejoined. Marston looked about. The sun was getting low and it was nearly calm. Now and then the topsail flapped and the mainsail hung slack. Blocks rattled as the heavy boom jerked about. The swell was smooth and in color a curious shining green, as if the light were reflected through it from beneath. It looked as if they were crossing a big sand, but Marston did not sound. Harry knew the coast, and the sailing directions required them to keep outside the shoals. In the distance a steamer's smoke trailed across the sky; one heard her engines beat with a monotonous rhythm. In front, the mist was melting and vague gray hills were faintly distinguishable. The yacht's deck was damp, but for the rolling she hardly moved. "We had better get some food," said Marston. "I'll light the stove."