“Illogical logic!” “Sure--an’ it’s the truth, nine times out of ten, Chester.” Fay glanced at his watch and quickened his steps. “We’ll take the Subway to the Customhouse. From there we go over the Bay.” Rake scratched his head and followed Fay down the steps, past the ticket-chopper, and lunged with him into the warm interior of a subway car. They were hurtled southward. Fay said nothing during the quick trip. His mind wove the details of the plan which he had to save the name of the Gray Brotherhood. He mounted to the surface of the street, closely followed by Rake. He sought a phone-booth before crossing to the Customhouse. Rake heard him giving a series of rapid-fire directions to Harrigan, the manager at George Mott’s headquarters. Fay emerged, tossed a dollar across to the cigar-clerk and jerked his thumb toward a box of Perfectos. “Eight of those!” he said. “Eight!” Outside, in the cool evening, the two men drew a long breath of smoke for the final plunge. They dodged a flashing taxi, climbed the Customhouse steps, and found, after consulting an alert doorman, that the harbor master’s assistant was in. To him Fay showed his card, his authority from George Mott, and other identifications. He sealed the matter with a cigar. The assistant to the harbor master made out passes in duplicate. He found the sealing wax and a well-chewed pen. He passed the finished documents over, after a scrawled signature in each corner. “They’ll take you aboard anything from here to the Hook,” he said, leaning and watching Fay. “Thanks!” said Fay. “I’ll see if they will!” * * * * * The ferry-house was thronged with passengers as the two ex-inmates searched about for Joe Yeader. These passengers thinned. A man stepped forward and clucked from the corner of his mouth. “All right,” said Fay swiftly. “Hop aboard, and we’ll follow.” Rake trailed Yeader and Fay. The three men secured seats in the smoking-cabin. Yeader, crossing his legs over a yellow kit-bag, took Fay’s proffered Perfecto, and drawled: “At your service, sirs. Beastly sultry night.” The ferry-boat reached St. George. The three rushed for a train which would pass Quarantine Station on an inland route. They descended at a dark station, walked rapidly through silent streets till they came to the gleaming waters of the Narrows. Fay saluted a man on guard, showed his authority from the Customhouse, and received permission to enter the telegraph station. He turned on the steps and glanced down at Yeader and Rake. “Stay here!” he said. “Hold the bag. I’m going up and find out when the _Imparada_ comes in. Also, I shall send a wireless message to the manager of the Gray Taxi Company.” Rake started. He frowned in perplexity. “How can you do that, Chester?” “I’ve got authority to do most anything. I want a Gray taxi to meet us when we dock with the _Imparada_. Perhaps your nice little blonde with the turned-up nose will be driving.”