For five seconds French thought hard. Then as they passed round the curve out of Style’s view he stopped the cars and hurriedly assembled his men.
“Style!” he explained rapidly. “After him, but on your lives not a sound!”
For big men, as most of the officers were, their movements were surprisingly silent as they followed French at the double. When they regained the shore the grass muffled their footsteps and such slight sounds as they made were lost in the dreary moaning of the wind and the plash of the waves on the beach. Presently they caught sight of Style. He had left the road and was picking his way down to the water’s edge. French and his followers dropped on their hands and knees and crawled on till they were directly behind him.
Style, having reached the edge, stopped and stood looking out over the water. He seemed to be doing something with his hands, but French could not imagine what.
Then he knew. From the sea came three flashes as from an electric torch, and with these as a guide French found he could detect a blacker smudge against the dark water. A vessel of some kind, close inshore and showing no lights.
As they watched, a second smaller smudge detached itself from the other. Someone was coming ashore.
Almost instinctively a plan flashed into French’s mind. After a whispered word to his men he began slowly to creep up behind Style. Style seemed uneasy, but it was not till French was beside him that he turned. At the same instant French sprang and with a muffled cry the man came down.
He fought like a maniac, but Carter and Harvey had come up and he had no chance. In a few seconds he was helpless, bound and gagged.
“Once again,” whispered French.
He had snatched off Style’s hat and putting this on and turning up his collar, he stood waiting as the other had done. The boat was now close inshore and revealed itself as a collapsible punt with a capacity for two. A short, stout man was rowing.
“Thought you’d never be back,” the stout man grumbled as the punt touched the ground. “For heaven’s sake look alive now. We don’t want to be here all night.”
Further remark died off into a kind of gurgle. French had seized him by the throat. This man also after the first moment of surprise fought like a tiger, but once again the odds were too heavy. In a few seconds he lay bound beside his accomplice.
“Now, Carter, it’s you and me for it,” French panted. “However many there may be they’re two fewer for this. You, Harvey, get the others and have those two men into one of the cars. Then come down and be prepared to lend a hand.”
Rapidly they righted and emptied the boat, which had been upset in the struggle, and French and Carter got in.
“I’ll row,” French decided. “I’m more the size of that second fellow. You take Style’s hat and turn up your collar. And have your gun ready.”
Old hand as he was, French’s heart was beating more rapidly than could be accounted for by his scrap as he pulled out towards the launch. These were desperate men, their escape almost consummated. They would not lose their freedom for the sake of the lives of a couple of policemen. French had no delusions as to the possibility that neither he nor Carter might ever see another sunrise.
“We want to take them alive,” he said in low tones, “but if you see them going to shoot get in first.”
The boat was closer inshore than French had supposed. As they came close they saw that she was a motor launch of some forty-five feet long. She seemed a sea boat, well decked over forward. On her deck astern stood a man and woman.
“It’s about time you thought of coming,” called out the man when they were within earshot. “What the ⸻ hell were you monkeying about ashore? We’ll not be clear of the Island by daylight at this rate.”
Welland! And the woman was certainly Gwen Lestrange! French murmured a husky reply in a tone as like that of the former oarsman as he could. But his effort was not good enough. The two started and called out simultaneously in tones of urgent anxiety.
“Sibley!” cried Welland. “Speak clearly, can’t you!” While Gwen shouted: “Jim! Is that you? Answer!”
French put down his head and pulled with all his might. The boat bounded forward. There was a sudden scuffle on deck. “Look out, it’s French!” came in a shrill scream from Gwen, while with a savage oath Welland roared: “Start the ⸻ engine! For your life, Gwen! I’ll pot them if they try to come aboard!” The voices of both had an edge of desperate urgency.
Like a flash the girl leaped to the cabin door, and after fumbling at its lock, disappeared within. Welland at the same time dashed across the deck, seized what appeared to be a top coat and began hurriedly searching its pockets. At that moment the boat came alongside and both French and Carter sprang at the rail and began to climb aboard. But they were too late. Before French reached the deck Welland found what he wanted. His hand flew up and in it was something shining. And then, just as he was about to fire, a flying figure appeared from the cabin—the figure of a girl. She dashed to Welland and as the jet of flame spurted from the pistol, struck desperately at his arm. French felt a searing pain in his head, but he was not disabled and he sprang across the deck to Welland. He had a vision of the girl reeling wildly back, and with her scream ringing in his ears, he closed. For a moment it seemed as if things would go badly with him. Welland was the bigger man and he was evidently in excellent training. He
