“One of my men in the rôle of a bumboatman was on her decks for upward of an hour. It seems that she is fitting out for a rather longer run than usual.” “Ah!” grunted Pawlinson sharply. “And she sails--when?” “That he was not exactly able to gather; for the boatswain, a decidedly uncommunicative chap, had to be handled softly.” “Uh!” broke in the other. “The boatswain was in command?” “Yes. It seems that he was waiting for Captain Stevens.” In spite of myself, I started at the name; for as yet I hadn’t stumbled to what way Hallins could have known more about the vessel than I myself. But it came out next breath. “You must pardon me, Mr. Pawlinson,” continued Hallins haltingly, but as though he must put in the words, “but are you quite positive that you are on the right trail? Dead positive, that is?” “Why do you ask?” snapped out Pawlinson viciously. “Simply because I could be almost as dead positive that everything is right in that quarter. I’ve known that boat for some years now. Even when I was working in New York, I used to spend my vacations in Casco Bay, and she has been owned all that time by Mr. Stroth. Why, I’ve even met the owner myself, and upon one occasion was his guest aboard for an afternoon.” “When was that?” gritted Pawlinson, in a voice which, for all its harshness, carried some uneasiness. “About four summers ago. Now, what I’m getting at is,” went on the sergeant hurriedly, “the schooner is still owned by the same gentleman, a known yachtsman and above suspicion.” “Oh, is he?” Pawlinson came to finality. “Well, now, to come to the point, yes. I do know exactly what I am doing; and, furthermore, I’ve no time to waste starting to do it. You say your man who got aboard to-day couldn’t get even an inkling when the start was to be made?” “Nothing from those on board. But this my man did gather: The vessel can’t start without gasoline; or, at least, the _Ruby Light_ usually does carry considerable.” “How is that? Can’t start? What’s to keep her?” Pawlinson’s was intense as he fired the questions. “Why, it happens that the supply tank at the club float where she usually fills sprang a leak early in the day, and the consignment of reserve barrels of ‘gas’ can’t reach her till eight-fifteen at the earliest.” “Good!” “Fine!” fairly chortled Pawlinson, rubbing his hands together delightedly. “No, you’re right, Hallins, she’ll not start without gasoline, and plenty of it. She never does. She uses her engine a lot.” Then his voice whirled from gloating to practicality; then to a bit of uneasiness as he glanced over his shoulder out of a window where the sky was dimming to dusk. “What time is it now?” Hallins glanced at his watch. “Five to seven.” “As late as that?” cried Pawlinson. “I can’t believe it. But here, man, we’ve still time to make it. I want ten of your best men, which, with myself and Grey here, will make twelve. And I want the police launch--she’s fast, isn’t she?”