“Where the flaming hell are you going?” inquired this stentorian voice; “haven’t you got any blasted eyes and ears"...

High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again—­swimming it seemed upon frothing milk.

The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote, astern.

“Damn close shave!” cried Rogers.  “It must be clear ahead; they’ve just run into it.”

One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion, now reported: 

“Cutter crossing our bow, sir!  Getting back to her course.”

“Keep her in view,” roared Rogers.

“Port, sir!”

“How’s that?”

“Starboard, easy!”

“Keep her in view!”

“As she is, sir!”

Again they settled down to the pursuit, and it began to dawn upon Stringer’s mind that the boat ahead must be engined identically with that of the police; for whilst they certainly gained nothing upon her, neither did they lose.

“Try a hail,” cried Rogers from the stern.  “We may be chasing the wrong boat!”

“Cutter ’hoy!” bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in lieu of a megaphone—­“heave to!”

“Give ’em ‘in the King’s name!’” directed Rogers again.

“Cutter ’hoy,” roared the man through his trumpeted hands,—­“heave to—­in the King’s name!”

Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the shouter almost convulsively.

“Take no notice, sir,” reported the man.

“Then it’s the gang!” cried Rogers from the stern; “and we haven’t made a mistake.  Where the blazes are we?”

“Well on the way to Blackwall Reach, sir,” answered someone.  “Fog lifting ahead.”

“It’s the rain that’s doing it,” said the man beside Stringer.

Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer’s hand.  This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down came the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the atmosphere, as a painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from his canvas.  Long tails of yellow vapor, twining—­twining—­but always coiling downward, floated like snakes about them; and the oily waters of the Thames became pock-marked in the growing light.

Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry—­a very rakish-looking motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of them.  He quivered with excitement.

“Do you know the boat?” cried Rogers, addressing his crew in general.

“No, sir,” reported his second-in-command; “she’s a stranger to me.  They must have kept her hidden somewhere.”  He turned and looked back into the group of faces, all directed toward the strange craft.  “Do any of you know her?” he demanded.

A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.