The band broke off abruptly; after a brief pause it struck up again.
“The King, Gord bless ‘im!” said Peter loyally.
“No. That is not for the King. They are playing Heil dir im Sieger Krantz” said Warden, still peering at the Sans Souci.
“Well, it’s the fust time I’ve ever heerd ‘Gord save the King’ called that,” expostulated the pilot.
“Same tune, different words.”
Peter sniffed in his scorn.
“They’ll be sayin’ the Old Hundredth is a Dutch hornpipe next,” he growled.
The Prussian National hymn might have acted as a tocsin to Mr. Baumgartner, for a light was hoisted forthwith over the poop of the Sans Souci, and Warden discerned the tall forms of the three West African natives standing near the tubby man who manipulated rope and pulley. Figuero was not visible at first. Warden began to be annoyed. Could it be possible that such a social outcast could be left in Evelyn Dane’s company? Developments soon relieved the tension. A launch puffed up and took away the visitors, Figuero being the last to step on board. The noisy little vessel was succeeded by two boats filled with sailors and servants. Within a few minutes the yacht’s officers arrived, the deck saloons were brilliantly illuminated, and the Sans Souci became a jeweled palace like unto the host of her congeners in the Solent.
By this time Peter was as interested as his employer in the comings and goings of their neighbors.
“There’s more in that than meets the eye, Mr. Warden,” he said, rolling some tobacco between his palms preparatory to filling his pipe.