For some minutes the searchlight played over the waters; but it was noticeable that it confined its attentions to a small arc; and that arc, fortunately or unfortunately, did not include that portion of the bay where lay our inert, low-lying craft. But its radiance suddenly found and rested upon something well ahead of us--a something that made both Pawlinson and myself let out an oath. “The police launch!” “But it’s headed back to town from Trawly’s Rock!” I cried. “Well, and why not?” he snapped. “Even a policeman can sometimes fall to the fact that there’s such a thing in this world as a bunk.” “You think, then,” said I, “that they have found out the wire was bogus?” “I think that when they got out to that desolate chunk of rock and didn’t find me there, that possibly something like that did enter their heads.” “But----” “But Stroth is right this minute chuckling happily; for, by the time that launch gets back to headquarters for new orders, he’ll be hull down, seaward.” “But he’s waiting for that gasoline.” “Oh, he is, is he? Take a squint at the schooner again, and see if he’ll have to wait long.” Much as I hated the fellow, I couldn’t but admire his perception. I followed his pointing, and discerned that a small lighter had been brought alongside the vessel, and, by the light of the lanterns that had been hung to the rigging at the rail, I could see men transferring barrel after barrel to the schooner’s hold. “The gasoline!” I cried. “Probably,” came the reply. “Then Hallins’ man who got aboard to-day was wrong as to the time they could get it?” “I have known mistakes, such slight ones, to be made before,” snarled Pawlinson. “But we can beat ’em to it yet,” I said, with enthusiasm. “How? What are you driving at?” “There’s a good twenty-five-mile-an-hour gait bottled up in this little tube,” I explained. “And here we are in a triangle. The police launch is headed cityward, but ahead of us, eh?” “Right enough.” “Then out there lies the schooner at another corner of the triangle, and to our port side.” “Right again.” Pawlinson’s sarcasm was, for the moment, absent. “I take it you are planning force from the first. You asked as to my gun, you know.” “Yes, yes. Go ahead, man!” “Then,” I cried, “what’s the matter with us uncorking every bit of ginger there is in this hydro--shoot past the schooner--overtake the patrol launch--give ’em the news, and----” “You think we could make it before Stroth’d get wise? He’s got a good engine himself, remember; and, should he tumble, he’d have a head start on the launch.” “But, being auxiliary,” I interrupted, frantic for action, “he is bound to be as much slower than the police boat than it is to our hydro. Besides, he’s not to up-anchor or cut. It’ll work!” I cried enthusiastically as I fished in my pocket for my jackknife and turned back quickly toward the taffrail. “Here, what’re you up to?” snapped Pawlinson.