The motor boat swept past, causing the yawl to rock violently in its back wash. Rayne bent over and appeared to be tying the lace of his shoe. His face was thus entirely concealed from the occupants of the motor boat. When the danger of recognition was past, he hissed to his two perspiring oarsmen: “Make it in eight minutes, and I’ll give you a dollar apiece!” The little yawl fairly leaped through the water, as the men put in all the strength and activity they could muster. “They’re going to the ship,” muttered Rayne. “I’ve got to be out of the way quickly. There may be a way of signaling shore. If there is anything like that to be done, that infernal Nick Carter will know how to do it.” CHAPTER IV. A PUZZLE FOR THE SKIPPER. It was not without thoroughly understanding the situation that John Garrison Rayne told himself he would be in danger if he did not get away before Nick Carter could communicate with the shore. Even if it should be impossible to telegraph, that motor boat was a swift-moving craft, and it would take very little time for it to get to the wharf from the _Cherokee_, if the famous detective should determine to go, instead of trying to signal. It happened that Rayne was just stepping on the quay as the motor boat swirled alongside of the steamer. Nick Carter, no longer dressed as a sailor, but in a neat, light, business suit, stepped upon the platform at the foot of the sea ladder, while his two assistants--who also had changed their attire--followed him closely. Nick had removed the heavy beard he had worn as Joe Sykes, the boatswain, and there was little in his face to remind one of the sailor except his penetrating dark eyes. Patsy and Chick, too, had changed their faces, so that no one on board the steamer would be likely to suspect that they ever had been members of the crew, taking the hard work, and the equally hard language of the bullying mate, all as part of the day’s work. Captain Lawton was worried over the taking away of the suit case. He had begun to feel misgivings, and it had disturbed his nerves. So he scowled when he saw three strangers boarding his ship. “What do you want?” was his inhospitable greeting, as Nick gained the top of the ladder. “I am a detective, and I’ve come to see your passenger, Paul Clayton,” replied Nick Carter, as he looked the skipper up and down. “He took passage with you under the name of Miles. Where is he?” “Search me,” grinned the captain. “He’s on board your vessel, isn’t he?” demanded Nick sternly. “A passenger of yours?” “No. He ain’t nothing of the kind. You say you’re a detective. Well, you’re a little late. Another detective, from New York, has been here and arrested him. So he isn’t a passenger. He’s a prisoner.” “Impossible!” ejaculated Nick Carter.