The scoundrel’s words floated distinctly to the ears of the watchers, and Oswyn was seized with a mad desire to rush in upon the plotters. Haverly restrained him, however. “Got a gun?” he questioned hoarsely. “No,” was the reply, “worse luck.” “Wal, I guess we can’t tackle the hull crowd with only one shooter. See here: I’m going to skid down to the dock, an’ if I don’t get the drop on ’em before long, my name ain’t Si. K. Haverly!” “But where do I come in?” asked the doctor. “You stay right here,” replied Haverly, “until them greasers come out, then you can nip in an’ unfix our pards.” “Couldn’t we rush ’em?” suggested Oswyn eagerly. “If you want a couple of funerals knockin’ around,” returned the millionaire grimly. “No, my son, you take it from me, it’s best to play a waiting game.” “Very well,” assented Oswyn, “get off down to the dock; I’ll wait here.” At that the Yankee turned, and vanished into the darkness of the surrounding shrubbery. For ten minutes Oswyn waited outside the window, then the four scoundrels filed out, the footman switching off the light ere he left. “Good-night, gentlemen,” he called mockingly, as he closed the window behind him, and it was all Oswyn could do to restrain the hot rage which rose within him, prompting him to knock the rascal down as he passed. But he controlled himself by a strong effort, and the four plotters, striding over the lawn, passed down the drive towards the dock gates. These the footman opened with one of a bunch of keys, and the quartette passed through into the yard. Around them, wrapped in darkness, lay the great workshops, wherein the various sections of the marvellous submarine had taken shape. Past these deserted buildings--which but lately had rung with stroke upon stroke of the workmen’s hammers--they went, under the guidance of the footman, until they stood beside the great dock, wherein lay floating the craft they had dared so much to obtain. Producing an electric lantern, the footman cast its beams over the gleaming hull of the vessel. “Wonderful!” the conspirators cried, as their eyes drank in the singular beauty of the boat. For a few moments they stood lost in admiration. On the quay alongside stood the piles of stores, awaiting shipment on the morrow, should the trial trip prove satisfactory, and the sight of them reminded the leader that that vessel was not yet theirs. “Aboard with you,” he cried, and led the way over the gangway. His two colleagues followed, leaving the footman on the quay. A moment later a blaze of light came from the turret of the submarine. The boat-stealers had switched on the great searchlight which topped the turret of the vessel, and its beams illumined the whole dockyard. “Sharp there, Benson!” the leader called, and at the words the footman moved to a great winch, which stood beside the dock.