“You shall meet your accuser.”

“And have a fair show?”

“Yes.”

“I have your word, captain?”

“You have my word.”

“Good enough, you have saved your life!  I’ll trust your word; if you go back on me, may the sharks soon crunch your living bones.”

“You stand here, I’ll bring the man aft.”

“Good enough.”

The captain went forward; the detective stood calm and patient, but his eyes were upon the master of the “Nancy.”  He saw Denman speak to the men, and then he saw the crew start in a body toward the afterdeck.  Denman had proved false, the smuggler had forfeited his word.

“It’s now or never,” muttered the detective, and he sprung beside the rudder port and stood upon the stern rail.  His form towered up through the night like an apparition, as he called in a loud tone: 

“You and I will meet again, Denman.  Sol Burton is a liar.”

Head first the intrepid detective dove from the vessel down into the water, and when he came to the surface he was beyond range, as the yacht was moving along with moderate speed in one direction, while our hero was swimming under water in an opposite course.

“Lower away the boat!” shouted Sol Burton.

The men ran to obey, but at that moment lights were seen, and one of the men shouted: 

“It’s a cutter!”

Ike Denman heard the latter shout, and commanded: 

“Hold fast there the boats!”

The crew had not time to take up a boat when the cutter was bearing down upon them.

“That man can never get ashore,” said an old tar; “No living man in full toggery can go over the side of this boat and ever come unaided out of the sea!”

“The cutter may pick him up,” suggested Sol Burton.

“More likely to pick us up!  No, no, he’ll be down on the bottom before the cutter gets around, and she will not run within five miles of where he went over, if she heads her course to overhaul us.”

“It’s not a cutter,” said Sol Burton.

“Well, let it go so; that man Ballard is with the angels by this time,” came the response.

Meantime the detective was moving like a fish through the calm waters toward the shore.

It was a smooth sea, and only a fifteen-mile swim, and he had gone aboard the yacht prepared for the venture.

When Spencer Vance sprung overboard, he was oiled from his ears to his heels, and his clothing was ready to be peeled down to an oil-skin under-suit, lined in the inner side with soft wool.

Like a fish he cut through the waters, and his heart was as brave as his sweeping stroke, as he propelled himself forward toward she shore.

“It’s all right, Johnny,” he muttered, as he spurted some sea water from between his lips.  “I’ll keep my word.  I’ll interview Ike Denman when he is not looking for me; and, as to Sol Burton, I’ll catch that man some day!”