Slowly the torpedo swung at its fastenings. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club lifted the cover of the manhole. And as the spies in the employ of Imperial Germany started to lower the torpedo into the sewer, Dixie Mason clung grimly to the telephone at the roadhouse, waiting for the answering voice from the other end of the wire. At last it came--the voice of Chief Flynn who had just entered the office for the day. His voice went keen and bright as the warning from Dixie came over the wire. Hastily he assembled the facts as she told them. Then: "A good night's work. Go home to bed. I'll handle everything." He lifted another 'phone and called the Criminology Club. "Busy" reported Central. For Dick Stewart was at that moment detailing the story of the assault upon him and the reasons he had failed in his quest. But Chief Flynn was already working on another angle of the protection of the Atlantic Fleet. A quick call to the Harbor Police. A moment later and with a scurrying rush, the power-launches of the New York Police department, their machine guns ready for instant action, shot forth into the bay. Another call and the Chief gained a clear wire to the Criminology Club. A few crisp orders and Grant and his men were hurrying by motor to Staten Island, to pick up Stewart on the way and rush to the shack that had housed the torpedo. But would they reach there in time? Grant would have given much to know. Out in the bay, here, there, everywhere, the boats of the harbor police were scattering, up toward the great, monstrous forms of the battleships, where, flags fluttering, the preparations were being made for the start of the President's review, searching under wharves, around lighters, hurrying to the protection of the Mayflower, whence the President would review the fleet--honeycombing the harbor in their search for suspicious characters, seeking everywhere for the torpedo that was planned to send a flagship to its doom, block the Great Atlantic Fleet in New York harbor and cripple the defense of the greatest nation in the world. But so far, the torpedo was safe from their search. In the dark confines of the sewer, it had been lowered and shunted to its mouth, where it lay concealed from view under the piling of an old dock. Back in the shack, Schmidt, the electrician, labored furiously on the last connection that would make the torpedo available for its deadly use--the wireless controller. Hurriedly he made the finishing touches, while down at the mouth of the sewer, the plotters watched the gathering boats across the way, the waving flags, and bright hued decorations that shone and shimmered with the bright sunlight of morning. From far in the distance came the screaming of sirens and the hoarser-throated sound of hundreds of tugboats, ferries and river craft. The review had started. Aboard the Mayflower, the President of the United States was to see the pride of the navy as it steamed forth to the open sea and--