—and ahead of that, again, a streak across the blackness, with another dot slightly to the left of the quarry…
He turned and looked along the police boat, noting that whereas, upon the former occasion of his looking, forms and faces had been but dimly visible, now he could distinguish them all quite clearly. The dawn was breaking.
'Where are we?' he inquired hoarsely.
'We're about one mile northeast of Sheerness and two miles southwest of the Nore Light!' announced Rogers—and he laughed, but not in a particularly mirthful manner.
Stringer temporarily found himself without words.
'Cutter heading for the open sea, sir,' announced a man in the bows, unnecessarily.
'Quite so,' snapped Rogers. 'So are you!'
'We have got them beaten,' said Stringer, a faint note of triumph in his voice. 'We've given them no chance to land.'
'If this breeze freshens much,' replied Rogers, with sardonic humor, 'they'll be giving US a fine chance to sink!'
Indeed, although Stringer's excitement had prevented him from heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind, which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a manner very disconcerting to the lands-man.
'It'll be rather fresh outside, sir,' said one of the men, doubtfully. 'We're miles and miles below our proper patrol'…
'Once we're clear of the bank it'll be more than fresh,' replied Rogers; 'but if they're bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark, that's OUR destination, too!'…
On—and on—and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they were drenched with spray. Now green water began to spout over the nose of the laboring craft.
'I've only enough juice to run us back to Tilbury, sir, if we put about now!' came the shouted report.
'It's easy to TALK!' roared Rogers. 'If one of these big 'uns gets us broadside on, our number's up!'…
'Cutter putting over for Sheppey coast, sir!' bellowed the man in the bows.
Stringer raised himself, weakly, and sought to peer through the driving spray and rain-mist.
'By God! THEY'VE TURNED—TURTLE!'…
'Stand by with belts!' bellowed Rogers.
Rapidly life belts were unlashed; and, ahead, to port, to starboard, brine-stung eyes glared out from the reeling craft. Gray in the nascent dawn stretched the tossing sea about them; and lonely they rode upon its billows.
'PORT! PORT! HARD A-PORT!' screamed the lookout.
But Rogers, grimly watching the oncoming billows, knew that to essay the maneuver at that moment meant swamping the cutter. Straight ahead they drove. A wave, higher than any they yet had had to ride, came boiling down upon them… and twisting, writhing, upcasting imploring arms to the elements—the implacable elements—a girl, a dark girl, entwined, imprisoned in silken garments, swept upon its crest!
Out shot a cork belt into the boiling sea… and fell beyond her reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled from the stern…
The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove to grasp it…
Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping—seeking—clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her floating hair…
'Here goes!' roared Rogers.
They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and round…
Down swept the eager wave… down—down—down… It lapped over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused, tremulous—dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune—then leaped on—away—headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.
'God's mercy!' whispered Stringer—'that was touch-and-go!'
No living thing moved upon the waters.
Chapter 41 WESTMINSTER—MIDNIGHT
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby reported himself in Inspector Dunbar's room at New Scotland Yard.
'I have completed my inquiries in Wharf-end Lane,' he said; and pulling out his bulging pocketbook, he consulted it gravely.
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
'Anything important?' he asked.
'We cannot trace the makers of the sanitary fittings, and so forth, but they are all of American pattern. There's nothing in the nature of a trademark to be found from end to end of the place; even the iron sluice-gate at the bottom of the brick tunnel has had the makers' name chipped off, apparently with a cold chisel. So you see they were prepared for all emergencies!'
'Evidently,' said Dunbar, resting his chin on the palms of his hands and his elbows upon the table.
'The office and warehouse staff of the ginger importing concern are innocent enough, as you know already. Kan-Suh Concessions was conducted merely as a blind, of course, but it enabled the Chinaman, Ho-Pin, to appear in Wharf-end Lane at all times of the day and night without exciting suspicion. He was supposed to be the manager, of course. The presence of the wharf is sufficient to explain how they managed to build the place without exciting suspicion. They probably had all the material landed there labeled as preserved ginger, and they would take it down below at night, long after the office and warehouse staff of Concessions had gone home. The workmen probably came and went by way of the river, also, commencing work after nightfall and going away before business commenced in the morning.'
'It beats me,' said Dunbar, reflectively, 'how masons, plumbers, decorators, and all the other artisans necessary for a job of that description, could have been kept quiet.'
'Foreigners!' said Sowerby triumphantly. 'I'll undertake to say there wasn't an Englishman on the job. The whole of the gang was probably imported from abroad somewhere, boarded and lodged during the day-time in the neighborhood of Limehouse, and watched by Mr. Ho-Pin or somebody else until the job was finished; then shipped back home again. It's easily done if money is no object.'
'That's right enough,' agreed Dunbar; 'I have no doubt you've hit upon the truth. But now that the place has been dismantled, what does it look like? I haven't had time to come down myself, but I intend to do so before it's closed up.'
'Well,' said Sowerby, turning over a page of his notebook, 'it looks like a series of vaults, and the Rev. Mr. Firmingham, a local vicar whom I got to inspect it this morning, assures me, positively, that it's a crypt.'
'A crypt!' exclaimed Dunbar, fixing his eyes upon his subordinate.
'A crypt—exactly. A firm dealing in grease occupied the warehouse before Kan-Suh Concessions rented it, and they never seem to have suspected that the place possessed any cellars. The actual owner of the property, Sir James Crozel, an ex-Lord Mayor, who is also ground landlord of the big works on the other side of the lane, had no more idea than the man in the moon that there were any cellars beneath the place. You see the vaults are below the present level of the Thames at high tide; that's why nobody ever suspected their existence. Also, an examination of the bare walls—now stripped—shows that they were pretty well filled up to the top with ancient debris, to within a few years ago, at any rate.'
'You mean that our Chinese friends excavated them?'
'No doubt about it. They were every bit of twenty feet below the present street level, and, being right on the bank of the Thames, nobody would have thought of looking for them unless he knew they were there.'
'What do you mean exactly, Sowerby?' said Dunbar, taking out his fountain-pen and tapping his teeth with it.
'I mean,' said Sowerby, 'that someone connected with the gang must have located the site of these vaults
