“Vendetta.”
“Vendetta,” cried Allegra, quick to observe the name. “Why, is not that Lord Lostwithiel’s yacht?”
“Yes—I think so,” faltered Isola.
“Then that must have been Lord Lostwithiel who passed as just now; and yet you would have known him, wouldn’t you?”
“That was not Lord Lostwithiel.”
“A friend of his, I suppose; such a nice-looking man, too. There was something so frank and cheery in his look as he just glanced at us both and marched briskly on. He did not pay us the compliment of seeming curious. I wonder who he is?”
Isola was wondering about something else. She was looking with a frightened gaze across the harbour, towards that one break in the long golden trail of the moonbeams where the Vendetta cast her shadow on the water. There were lamps gleaming brightly here and there upon the vessel—a look of occupation.
“Is Lord Lostwithiel on board his yacht?” Allegra asked of one of the sailors, not ashamed to appear inquisitive.
“No, ma’am; Mr. Hulbert is skipper.”
“Who is Mr. Hulbert?”