Through the impromptu armada the racers speed over the toppling seas. A thousand glasses are upon them. What does it mean? The white cruiser all may recognize, but her sable-hulled consort, what is she? Straight out from staff and halyards the wind whips the flag and ensigns of the America, but neither ensign nor flag does the strange steamship show, and except for the great white wake that trails behind her she might be a phantom ship, another Flying Dutchman.
But ere the “reviewing stand” recovers from its first surprise, both craft are miles away, black bow and white bow piling over hills of foam like sleighs over snowdrifts and the surge that goes sobbing along the glistening sides of the cruiser, inaudible above the roar of her mighty engines, sounds like the weeping for a lost race.
For the black hull is bow and bow with the white, as, after a long and critical survey of the yacht from the bridge, Capt. Meade descends to the deck and summons the chief engineer.
“Everything is working finely, sir,” that official reports. “We are steaming the extreme limit under natural draught. Shall we try the forced now, sir?”
Capt. Meade hesitates and again gazes long at the yacht. The latter has now a clear length of open water to the good and her stern is presented squarely in view for the first time. The single word Semiramis is inscribed thereon in gold letters. But no port is designated.
“The Semiramis,” murmurs the commander of the America. “I never heard of the craft before, but her name will be on every man’s lips before long, I’ll wager.” Then to the chief engineer: “Yes, put on the forced draught.”
Jack Ashley wipes the marine glasses with which the thoughtfulness of the second officer has provided him, and turns them again toward the afterdeck of the yacht.
“Well, may I be keelhauled, or some other equally condign nautical punishment,” he mutters, after a long look. “If that isn’t Louise Hathaway, seated in a steamer chair, then do my optics play me strange pranks. But what is she doing on the deck of that yacht? She appears to be alone; at least there is no other lady passenger on deck. Ah, there is Mr. Felton. So Barker was too late. Felton and Miss Hathaway must be the guests of the gay yachtsman who is making ducks and drakes of the America on her trial trip.
“Thunder and Mars!” cries the newspaper man, nearly dropping the glasses to the deck. “Phillip Van Zandt! He is apparently the owner of the yacht. Good heavens! What irony of fate brings together those two participants in the Raymond tragedy. For Van Zandt is Ernest Stanley, I will swear it.
“Well, as the novelists say, the plot thickens. How did Van Zandt ingratiate himself into the good graces of Cyrus Felton? It must have been recently, for Miss Hathaway spoke as if they had no friends in the city. Hang it all! I don’t just fancy the situation. How assiduously he is waiting upon her now! Heigho, Jack! I think I would as soon have reported this trial trip from the deck of the Semiramis.” At which thought Ashley impatiently pitches over the rail the remains of one of Capt. Meade’s favorite brand of cigars.