One thing was that he knew he was on the Hudson River, in a neighborhood where there was plenty of traffic, both afloat and ashore, especially in daylight. If the worst came, he would be able to attract the attention of somebody on passing craft and get released that way. There was a good-sized window to his stateroom, overlooking the deck and the water. It was secured by iron bars, so that he could not escape that way, although no doubt the bars had been built in to keep marauders out, instead of the occupant in. Occasionally he had seen one of the crew pass by. But no one looked in his direction. They had had their orders, no doubt. It was late now, and for the last ten minutes that he had been sitting by the open window, letting the smoke from his cigar go through, he had not seen anybody. Neither had there been any sounds in the saloon or the other staterooms. It was clear to Nick that Solado and Miguel had both gone to bed, satisfied that nothing could be done to-night to catch Marcos--if they had any such intention. “I am glad it is so,” thought Nick Carter. “By the morning I shall have my plans ready to work. I don’t want to be disturbed any more now.” He switched off the two electric lights in his cabin, and resumed his seat by the window in the dark. He was not ready to go to bed yet. It was getting to the still hour for the morning when everything seems dead, preparatory to bursting into life a little later by another day of activity. A few lights twinkled here and there on the water or along the shores. But, aside from them, there was nothing to suggest that many thousands of people were within sound of his voice if he should shout aloud, while a few miles down the river a metropolis of four or five millions lay slumbering. He got up and went to the door to examine the lock. “Easy!” he murmured. “I know the locks on boats of this kind. They are supposed to be so safe that they are more vulnerable than those which have not such a reputation. I’ll get out of this room when the time comes. But that is not just yet.” He went back to the window and again looked out. It was more than an hour later when he fixed his gaze on something that looked like the shadow of a wave a little way off. “A boat, and hanging about, looking at what there is here,” was his inward comment. “If I hadn’t good eyes, I doubt whether I could have seen that. It’s coming nearer to the yacht. I wonder---- There will be no harm in trying. I don’t suppose any one will notice it. If they do, what matters?” He put his face close to the window and whistled part of the refrain of the popular melody, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary!” The whistle was like that of a man who is not thinking much of what he is doing, but it had a penetrating quality which is not often heard in that sort of music.