“Here’s our place,” said Tom, as we rattled up to a house which displayed on the stairs to the second story a sign, “Dancing Academy.” “This was the only room we could get that had incandescent wiring, and that was long enough to hold the scale of the Denckel apparatus,” he explained to Dorothy, as we crossed the bare floor to the apparatus, standing in front of the chairs whereon was wont to repose the beauty and chivalry of Folkestone, at the “assemblies” advertised below. “The machine is working beautifully. Look at this.” He threw the switch, lighted the lamp, and lowered the green shade. The belt of metal had revolved scarcely a minute, and Tom was pulling down the last shade, as the beam fluttered and the machine stopped. “Just in time,” said Dorothy delighted. “Hurry up, Tom.” The old inherent passion of the chase was on us all, and in less than twenty minutes, the last figures made, Tom and Dorothy compared their work. “Just there,” said Tom, making a cross with his pencil on a point on the French coast some ten miles up from Boulogne. “Come on, don’t waste a minute. It’s practically a straight run across the channel.” Ten minutes brought us aboard the little yacht and ten minutes more saw us steaming out of the harbor. Dorothy was with us. Further discussion had been useless. “Not much like the Black Arrow,” I said, as we came out rather slowly into the Channel. “You wait till she gets speeded up,” said Tom. “She can go. I proved that yesterday.” He was right. Once out into the Channel, our speed gradually increased, till we were making good progress. In an hour we sighted the French coast from the little bridge, and Tom, beside the skipper, was making for the cross on the chart. “We’ll sight her, if she hasn’t gone directly away from us, inside of fifteen minutes,” Tom said. Dorothy stood beside the wheel, ranging the whole horizon with her binoculars. She had thrown aside her hat, and a loosened tress of her hair flew lightly across my face as I stood beside her. “Two sails off that point,” she announced, in a few moments. “They look more like those tubs of French fishing-boats than a yacht,” she said shortly. “Look at them, Jim.” She handed her glasses to me. The horizon, for five miles in any direction from the point where we were heading, showed but the two sails she had mentioned, and we headed directly for them. As we neared them, we saw that Dorothy’s eyes had proved true. They were wide, clumsy, fishing craft, such as sail from the harbor of Boulogne, or hang in miniature as votive offerings before the altars of the cathedral. Undecked and open, they could hold no complicated apparatus. Their crews were sturdy, jerseyed fishermen, who stared in open-mouthed wonder, as our yacht came up alongside the first, and a volley of questions came in rapid French from the beautiful girl on the bridge.