The momentum from the boat as he sank robbed him for an instant of all control over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled over and over beneath the water—­but the next moment his head was above the surface again, and he was striking out swiftly for the shore.  It was only a few yards—­but in a few seconds the pursuing boat, too, would have rounded the point.  His feet touched bottom.  It was haste now, nothing else, that counted.  The drum of the racing engines, the crackling roar of the exhaust from the oncoming boat was in his ears.  He flung himself upon the shore and down behind a rock.  Around the point, past him, tore the police boat, dark forms standing clustered in the bow—­and then a sudden shout: 

“There she is!  See her?  She’s heading into the bay for the shore!”

Jimmie Dale’s lips relaxed.  There was no doubt that they had sighted their quarry again—­a perfect fusillade of revolver shots directed at the now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that!  With something that was almost a chuckle, Jimmie Dale straightened up from behind the rock and began to run back along the shore.  The little motor boat would have grounded long before they overtook her, and, thinking naturally enough, that he had leaped ashore from her, they would go thrashing through the woods and fields searching for him!

It was a longer way back by the shore, a good deal longer; now over rough, rocky stretches where he stumbled in the darkness, now through marshy, sodden ground where he sank as in a quagmire time and again over his ankles.  It was even longer than he had counted on, and time, with the Weasel on one hand and the return of the police on the other, was a factor to be reckoned with again, as, a half hour later, Jimmie Dale stole across the lawn of Mittel’s house for the second time that night, and for the second time crouched beneath the open French windows.

Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once immaculate evening clothes but which now sagged limply about him, his collar a pasty string around his neck, the mud and dirt splashed to his knees, Jimmie Dale was a disreputable and incongruous-looking object as he crouched there, shivering uncomfortably from his immersion in spite of his exertions.  Inside the room, Mittel passed the windows, pacing the floor, one side of his face badly cut and bruised from the blow with the boat hook—­and as he passed, his back turned for an instant, Jimmie Dale stepped into the room.

Mittel whirled at the sound, and, with a suppressed cry, instinctively drew back—­Jimmie Dale’s automatic was dangling carelessly in his right hand.

“I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic,” observed Jimmie Dale apologetically, surveying his own bedraggled person; “but I assure you it is neither intentional nor for effect.  As it is, I was afraid I would be late.  Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping myself; one gets a chill in wet clothes so easily”—­he passed to the liqueur stand, poured out a generous portion from one of the decanters, and tossed it off.