“This isn't all settled, is it, Mr. Beveridge? Dick hasn't told you that what you thought was so?” “It was hardly necessary. I found the proofs right there on his schooner.” “Is that right, Dick?” “It seems to be.” “You don't mean to say right out that you're a smuggler, Dick?” “No, I'm not.” Captain Fargo was puzzled. He looked from one to the other of the two men, until Beveridge, with an air of settling the matter, rose. “You'd better not throw away any sympathy there, Cap'n. You can be thankful to find out in time that he's a bad one. I'm only sorry to have to draw your family into it. I tried hard enough not to.” “Yes, I know that.” There was a shout outside, a noise on the steps, and a hammering on the door. Then before the fisherman could get out of his chair, the outer door burst open, and down the hall and into the dining room came Wilson, breathless, his hat still on his head. “Well, Bert--” “He's skipped!” “McGlory? What were you thinking of? Where'd he go?” Beveridge was on his feet. “No use, Bill; sit down. It 'll take a steamer to catch him.” “You didn't stand there and let him sail off.” “Wait 'll I tell you. I was back a little way, where the pier narrows, so's he couldn't slip by through the lumber. The schooner he was on, the--the--” “_Schmidt_,” put in Pink. “The _Schmidt_ was on the south side, the--the--” “_Merry Anne_” said Pink, “--was on the north. There's a south wind, you see. And the first thing I knew I heard the tackle creaking off to the left. Thinks I, that's from the _Merry Anne_, only there ain't a soul aboard her. I ran out and looked, and sure enough, there she was, with two or three men hauling away on the sails.” “And you didn't stop 'em?” “How could I, Bill? You see, they'd cut the ropes and let her drift off down the wind. She was a hundred feet out before they made a move.” “But what were they doing on the _Merry Anne?_” “Don't you see?” said Pink; “she can beat the old _Schmidt_ hands down.” “They'd sneaked across out by the end,” added Wilson, “while I was nearer shore.” Beveridge sat down again, and tapped the table nervously as his eyes shifted from one to another of the faces before him. “How're they sailing, Bert?” “Right off north.” “Before the wind?” “Yes, sure,” said Pink; “how could they help it with a south wind?” “Smiley,”--Beveridge had turned on Dick, and was speaking in a keen, hard voice,--“where are they going?” “I couldn't tell you.” “Think a little. Your memory's poor, maybe.” But Dick was stubborn. Pink, however, was struck by a flash of intelligence. “I 'll bet I know.” “Where, Harper?” “Why, to Spencer's, where we just come from.” “Where's that?” “Around in Lake Huron. If I had a chart here--Cap'n, ain't you got a chart o' Lake Huron?”