"Now I am a goner," was the mental declaration of the intrepid revenue officer, while at the same time he was, resolved to take all necessary precautions. He found a hiding place and passed a full hour of anxiety, indeed, a mental strain that would have turned a less nervy man gray. The agony, however, passed, and he escaped discovery, and heard one of the fellows say: "He is not in here, that is certain." "You're mistaken, Charley," muttered the detective to himself, in a spirit of reckless facetiousness. Ike Denman appeared to be completely disheartened, and he said: "I tell you, my good fellows, we're in trouble; that man has got away." "What will you do?" "There is only one thing for me to do; I must go to New York and report the situation at headquarters." "We can get the goods away." "It's easy to say we can get the goods away, but where will we take them?" "We can load the 'Nancy' down with the most valuable of them." "That is a good idea, but you cannot get to work until to-night." "We can start in to-night." "Where will you run her when she's loaded?" "We can run outside and communicate." "Do that, and meantime I will go on to New York. There is a one o'clock train from the station on the other side. I will go on that train." "And we are to load the 'Nancy' to-night." "Yes." The detective overheard the whole of the above conversation, and great drops of perspiration came out upon his forehead. He was in a bad fix after all. Should Denman get to New York ahead of him, he would lose his best grip after all. Something must be done. He must get over to the mainland before one o'clock, in time to take the train with Denman, at all hazards. Denman and a part of his crew passed from the warehouse while one of the men remarked: "I've some private property in here to look after and I'll see to it at once." A smile flitted over the face of the detective. He thought a chance was about to present itself for him to get away. A moment he lay quiet, and then emerged from his hiding-place. The warehouse was artificially illuminated by a few swinging lamps, and only one was lighted at the time. The detective cautiously glanced around. He had prepared himself for the work he had in hand. He saw a light in a distant corner and he cautiously stole toward the light, and came upon a man sorting over the contents of a sailor's ship-sack. It was a critical moment; life depended upon success, death would follow, sure death, the failure of his plan. Like a cat creeping toward an unsuspecting bird on a twig, the detective crept toward the smuggler, knowing that when he sprung upon his prey there must be no mistake. The critical moment was reached, the officer made his leap forward, and seized his man, seized him by the throat, and when once Vance got his grip on a man's throat silence followed; no man was ever known to make an outcry with those powerful fingers grasped around his neck.