A great leap. Harrison Grant was at the key of the wireless controller. Quickly he reversed it, sending the current crackling out over the Narrows. But would the effect come in time? Would the electric current swerve the course of that torpedo soon enough to save the great battleship before it from destruction? Gasping and panting, Harrison Grant watched for the result, his soul agonized, his heart pounding with aching severity. A second--and the torpedo had not moved from its course. Another--Harrison Grant bent forward happily. Out there in the choppy waters of the Narrows, he believed he had seen the torpedo swerve slightly--yes, there it had moved a full three feet from its course-- Now ten--look! The men on the reserve launch were waving their arms and clambering to the top of the launch as it sped along. The torpedo had moved more in its course--now it seemed to be turning--it _was_ turning! A great, glad cry broke from the lips of Harrison Grant. The torpedo was making a full semi-circle in the water now--on the roof of the reserve launch a Criminology Club detective was preparing to dive into the water for the desperate purpose of kicking the wireless antennae from the explosive monster and making it useless, while on beyond, there where the guns were booming, where the flags were flying and the bands were playing, the Great Atlantic Fleet, safely, triumphantly, was sailing through the Narrows, out to the freedom of the open sea! Harrison Grant watched happily for a moment, then turned to make his way back through the tunnel and to the interrogation of the captured spy. It was then that he noticed that his brow was covered with a cold perspiration, that his collar was wilted--in spite of the almost cold day--that he was shaking and trembling from the excitement of the chase. He reached for his handkerchief, then hesitated at the touch of the reticule in his pocket. Wonderingly he brought it forth and examined it. "A woman's party chatalaine," he mused. "Some spy that's mixed up in this thing, I guess. Dropped it coming from the shack. I wonder if there's anything in it to give a clue to her identity." He pulled open the bag. He stared a moment at the initials of the card case which lay within, then opened it feverishly. The wondering expression of his eyes changed to grimness. His lips resolved themselves into a straight line. Slowly they repeated the name on the card: "Miss Dixie Mason!" The battleships in the distance seemed to fade. The sound of the sirens, the booming guns, all drifted into nothingness. Dully, monotonously, the lips of Harrison Grant framed the words: "Dixie Mason! So she was the one! Dixie Mason--a spy!" CHAPTER IV. VON RINTELEN--THE DESTROYER