The Czar's Spy: The Mystery of a Silent Love

CHAPTER

There was a mysterious affair last night, signore.
Oh! I exclaimed. Anything that interests us?
Yes, signore, replied the tall, thin Italian Consular-clerk, speaking with a strong accent. An English steam yacht ran aground on the Meloria about ten miles out, and was discovered by a fishing-boat who brought the news to harbor. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats, which managed after a lot of difficulty to bring in the yacht safely, but the Captain of the Port has a suspicion that the crew were trying to make away with the vessel.
To lose her, you mean?
The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative of silence.
Sounds curious, I remarked. Since the Consul went away on leave things seem to have been humming—two stabbing affrays, eight drunken seamen locked up, a mutiny on a tramp steamer, and now a yacht being cast away—a fairly decent list! And yet some stay-at-home people complain that British consuls are only paid to be ornamental! They should spend a week here, at Leghorn, and they'd soon alter their opinion.
Yes, they would, signore, responded the thin-faced old fellow with a grin, as he twisted his fierce gray mustache. Francesco Carducci was a well-known character in Leghorn; interpreter to the Consulate, and keeper of a sailor's home, an honest, good-hearted, easy-going fellow, who for twenty years had occupied the same position under half a dozen different Consuls. At that moment, however, there came from the outer office a long-drawn moan.
Hulloa, what's that? I enquired, startled.
Only a mad stoker off the Oleander , signore. The captain has brought him for you to see. They want to send him back to his friends at Newcastle.