I could scarcely believe it, but an exclamation from Kennedy as he drew his head in quickly recalled my attention.  “Look out on the river, Walter,” he cried.  “The Mohican has her searchlight sweeping up and down.  What do you see?”

The long finger of light had now come to rest.  In its pathway I saw a lightless motor-boat bobbing up and down, crowding on all speed, yet followed relentlessly by the accusing finger.  The river front was now alive with shouting.

Suddenly the Mohican shot out from behind the pier where she had been hidden.  In spite of Lang’s expertness it was an unequal race.  Nor would it have made much difference if it had been otherwise, for a shot rang out from the Mohican which commanded instant respect.  The powerful revenue cutter rapidly overhauled the little craft.

A hurried tread down the passageway followed.  Cases were being shoved aside and a key in the door of our compartment turned quickly.  I waited with clenched fists, prepared for an attack.

“You’re all right?” Herndon’s voice inquired anxiously.  “We’ve got that steward and the other fellows all right.”

“Yes, come on,” shouted Craig.  “The cutter has made a capture.”

We had reached the stern of the ship, and far out in the river the Mohican was now headed toward us.  She came alongside, and Herndon quickly seized a rope, fastened it to the rail, and let himself down to the deck of the cutter.  Kennedy and I followed.

“This is a high-handed proceeding,” I heard a voice that must have been Lang’s protesting.  “By what right do you stop me?  You shall suffer for this.”

“The Mohican,” broke in Herndon, “has the right to appear anywhere from Southshoal Lightship off Nantucket to the capes of the Delaware, demand an inspection of any vessel’s manifest and papers, board anything from La Montaigne to your little motor-boat, inspect it, seize it, if necessary put a crew on it.”  He slapped the little cannon.

“That commands respect.  Besides, you were violating the regulations—­no lights.”

On the deck of the cutter now lay four cases.  A man broke one of them open, then another.  Inside he disclosed thousands of dollars’ worth of finery, while from a tray he drew several large chamois bags of glittering diamonds and pearls.

Pierre looked on, crushed, all his jauntiness gone.

“So,” exclaimed Kennedy, facing him, “you have your jilted fiancee, Mademoiselle Violette, to thank for this—­her letters and her suicide.  It wasn’t as easy as you thought to throw her over for a new soul mate, this Mademoiselle Gabrielle whom you were going to set up as a rival in business to Violette.  Violette has her revenge for making a plaything of her heart, and if the dead can take any satisfaction she—­”

With a quick movement Kennedy anticipated a motion of Pierre’s.  The ruined smuggler had contemplated either an attack on himself or his captor, but Craig had seized him by the wrist and ground his knuckles into the back of Pierre’s clenched fist until he winced with pain.  An Apache dagger similar to that which the little modiste had used to end her life tragedy clattered to the deck of the ship, a mute testimonial to the high class of society Pierre and his associates must have cultivated.