“Yes. We 'll soon be in. Isn't it about time to put the handcuffs on me?” Beveridge smiled. “That will hardly be necessary.” “But Chicago's a bad town. I might get away from you.” “We won't worry about that.” “Do you carry the things on you? I never saw any.” Beveridge drew a pair from his hip pocket, and handed them to Henry. “How do they work?” “Easily. Slip them on--this way.” There was a click and Henry's hands were chained together. “That's easy enough, isn't it?” said he, walking a few steps up and down the deck, surveying himself. Then he went to the rail and leaned on it, looking silently off toward the lights. Just what came next, Dick never could remember. He had turned away to gaze at the alternating red-and-white lights that marked Grosse Pointe and home, so that he saw little more than Henry's swift movement and Beveridge's start. An instant more and he was standing at the rail with Beveridge, in the place where Henry had been standing a moment before--gazing down at the foam that fell away from the bows. He heard the special agent sing out: “Stop her, stop her, Cap'n! Man overboard!” He was conscious that the engines had stopped; and he heard the Captain's voice from the bridge: “No use! He went under the wheel!” Then came the order to lower a boat, and the rush of feet across the deck. CHAPTER XIV--IN WHICH BEVERIDGE SURPRISES HIMSELF [Illustration: 0416] DICK and Beveridge stood on the wharf at Chicago. The lights that wavered over their faces from the lanterns of the Foote and from the arc lamp overhead showed them sober, silent. The _camaraderie_ of the chase and of the voyage that followed had ceased to be. Beveridge's elation had been subdued by the distressing event of the evening, but still the mind behind his decorously quiet face was teeming with plans and schemes. Dick was gloomy, bewildered. Both seemed to be waiting for something. They stood watching the bustle aboard the revenue cutter as the crew made her snug for the night, until finally Dick spoke:-- “You haven't told me yet what I'm to do next, Bill.” “What you're to do next?” “Why--yes. You see--” “Go on. I'm listening.” But Dick found it hard to go on. “I didn't know but what--” Beveridge turned abruptly at a noise up the street, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. And after a moment Dick saw what had kept him waiting. It was no sense of delicacy. Beveridge had been looking for a carriage. “Get in, Smiley,” he said, when the driver pulled up. “Get in?” “Yes--after you.” “You mean, then--” “Well, what?” “I didn't suppose after what has happened that you'd need me any longer.” “Not need you, Smiley?” They were seated within the vehicle now, the door was shut, and the driver, the special agent's whispered word in his ear, was whipping up his horses. “I'm afraid you don't understand. I have no authority to let you off.”