"Who are you?" An answer rose in a man’s surly voice: "What’s that to you?" "A good deal. I’m Ferguson of Council Oaks and I’m looking for the boat that fired on some one round here about an hour ago." The voice replied, its tone changed to sudden conciliation: "Oh, Mr. Ferguson; couldn’t see who it was. We’re what you’re looking for—the police patrol. We have the launch here in tow." "Have you got the man?" "Yes, sir. He didn’t answer our challenge and fired on us. We chased and gave it back to him—a running fight. One of us got him—he’s dead." "Go on to my wharf; I’ll be there when you come." On his way along the shore road he met Price, paused for a quick explanation, and the two cars ran at a racing clip to Ferguson’s wharf. The men were standing on its end when the police boat glided into the gush of light that fell from the high electric lamps at either side of the ship. Behind it, lifted and dropped by the languid wavelets, was a launch, a covered shape lying on the floor. The story of the police was quickly told. The night, dark and windless, was the kind chosen by the water thieves for their operations. The men had been on the watch faring noiselessly with engine muffled and hooded lamps. It was nearly the end of their run, a length of shore with few estates, when they saw a boat glide from a part of the beach peculiarly dark and deserted. The craft carried no lights, a fact that instantly roused their suspicions, and they waited. As it drew out for the open water they challenged. There was no answer, but a sudden acceleration of its speed, shooting by them like a streak for the mid reaches of the Sound. They started in pursuit, repeating their challenge and then an order to lie to. Again there was no response and they clapped on top speed and raced in its wake. They were gaining on it when, in answer to a louder hail, the man fired on them, the bullet passing between two of them and burying itself in the gunwale. They replied with a return fire, there was a fusillade of shots, and the two boats sped in a darkling rush across the Sound. They knew something was wrong with their opponent; his launch headed in a straight line swept through the wash of steamers, cut across the bows of tugs and river craft, rocking like a cockleshell, menaced by destruction, shouts and objurgations following its mad course. They were up with it, almost alongside on the last lap. He made no answer to their hails, sat upright and motionless, sat so when his bow crashed against the rocks of the Connecticut shore. They found him dead, a bullet in his brain, the wheel still gripped in his hands.