Lady Merrill lapsed into silence.
The horses drove along the esplanade bordered with pine trees towards the harbour at the end of the town.
It was only a small harbour, but it was filled with yachts of all sizes and Nevada looked eagerly for The Moulay, the yacht belonging to Tyrone Strome.
She had a feeling that it would be different from the others and she was not mistaken.
Instead of being all white as were those belonging to rich French, English and Italian owners, The Moulay had a prow of black picked out in gold.
She also had a deep black line above the watermark and appeared longer, thinner and more graceful than any of the other yachts moored near her.
As the horses drew to a standstill beside the gangplank, Lady Merrill said,
“It’s not yet twelve o’clock. What I would like
