All this came about something after this fashion. When Norton arrived at the foot of Corey Street a boatman informed him that a young woman of his description had got into a fast motor boat and had gone down the river. "Was there any struggle?" "Struggle? None that I could see. She didn't make no fuss about going." "Have you a launch?" "Yes, but the other boat has half an hour's start, and I'd never catch her in a thousand years. But there's a hydroplane a little above here. You might interest the feller that runs it." "Thanks!" But the aviator would not listen. "A life may hang in the balance, man!" expostulated Norton, longing to pommel the stubborn man. "What proof have I of that?" Norton showed his card and badge. "Oh, I see!" jeered the aviator. "A little newspaper stunt in which I am to be the goat. It can't be done, Mr. Norton; it can't be done." "A hundred dollars!" "Not for five hundred," and the aviator callously turned away toward the young woman with whom he had been conversing prior to Norton's approach. The two walked a dozen yards away. Norton had not served twelve years as a metropolitan newspaper man for nothing. He approached the mechanics who were puttering about the machine. "How about twenty apiece?" he began. "For what?" the men asked. "For sending that paddle around a few times." "Get into that seat, but don't touch any of those levers," one of them warned. "Twenty is twenty, Jack, and the boss is a sorehead to-day anyhow. Give her a shove for the fun of it." It was a dumfounded aviator who saw his hydroplane skim the water and a moment later sail into the air. These swift moving days a reporter of the first caliber is supposed to be able to run railroad engines, submarines, flying machines, conduct a war, able to shoot, walk, run, swim, fight, think, go without food like a python, and live without water like a camel. Norton had flown many times in the last four years. At the moment he called out to Florence to jump he dropped to the water with all the skill of an old-timer and took her aboard. And he could not use a line of this exploit for his paper! Jones heard the bell. It was the agent from the Black Hundred. He smiled jauntily. "Well, old fox, we've cornered you at last, haven't we? I want that money, or Hargreave's daughter takes another sea voyage, and this time she will not jump overboard. A million; and no more nonsense." "Give me fifteen minutes to decide," begged Jones, hoping against hope. "Fifteen seconds!" "Then we can't do business. What! Give you a million, knowing you all to be a pack of liars? Bring Miss Florence back and the money is yours. We are tired of fighting." As indeed Jones really was. The strain had been terrific for weeks. "The money first. We don't lie any better than you do. Fork over. You'll have to trust us. We have no use for the girl once we get the cash."