After gun-fire no boat is allowed to move about Rio harbor or bay without a formal signed, sealed and stamped permit from the authorities. All night the half dozen fussy little steam-launches of the water-police are shooting about on the dark water, cutting flashing ripples through the trails of light which the shore lights shed over the bay and probing the pitchy shadows with stiletto flashes of their search-lights. The penalty for being caught without papers is forfeiture of the boat and a night in the calaboose for all, and a rigorous trial for any suspected of intended stealing or smuggling. Between the American and Norwegian anchorages a small boat was moving noiselessly. It was after gun-fire but still early in the night. The oars made no sound and the craft kept to the obscure parts of the water. In the dead silence they preserved the two men in it heard a faint puffing still far off. They were at the most exposed part of their passage, far from any ship and farther from the nearest wharf. By the sound the search-light would reveal them in a moment, they judged. The launch was coming from the west, and to eastward of them, nearer the entrance of the bay, was the anchorages for vessels temporarily in harbor and for pleasure yachts. One said something and the rower began to do his utmost, after turning toward the east. Henderson had seen that he had but one chance. He knew what would happen to him if he were caught and he could see no escape. He had sighted the Halcyon, Wareham’s yacht, and formed his plan at once. If Milly was on her and her brother ashore he might be saved. If not, he was no worse off for rowing up to her. They had more start than they had thought and both began to regret they had not kept on toward the wharves. The launch turned the light toward them, but their distance was such that it only half revealed them. They were near the yacht now and the gangway was not on their side. Joao rounded the yacht’s stern and bumped on the lowest step, the launch throbbing after them at top speed. Henderson stepped up the gangway. The anchor-watch had not hailed them and he had his heart in his mouth at the certainty that either the best or worst was coming. Before he reached the deck a face leaned over the rail well aft and a soft voice asked: “Who is that, please?” and the words were in English. John’s heart leapt. “Jack,” he answered with almost a cry of relief. Just then a yellow glare swung round from aft and an excited voice called out in Portuguese. Milly took in the whole situation instantly. She had been told of the regulations and she had heard of Henderson’s supposed real business in Brazil. The instant the pulsations of the tiny engine ceased as the launch slowed down she spoke clearly in French, with a pleased tone of recognition in her utterance: “Is that you, Captain Macedo? What did you ask?”