The Missing Merchantman

This story opens on a glorious day about the middle of July; and Weymouth, with its charming bay, was looking its very best. A gentle southerly breeze was blowing; the air was clear-just warm enough to render a dip in the sea the quintessence of luxury-and so laden with ozone and the wholesome scent of the sea that to breathe it was like imbibing a draught of elixir vitae.