Harder, harder stared Stringer, and now a faint, lighter smudge in the blackness, ahead and below, proclaimed itself the wake of some rapidly traveling craft. “I can hear her motor!” said another voice. Stringer began, now, also to listen. Muffled sirens were hooting dismally all about Limehouse Reach, and he knew that this random dash through the night was fraught with extreme danger, since this was a narrow and congested part of the great highway. But, listen as he might, he could not detect the sounds referred to. The brazen roar of a big steamer's siren rose up before them. Rogers turned the head of the cutter sharply to starboard but did not slacken speed. The continuous roar grew deeper, grew louder. “Sharp lookout there!” cried the inspector from the stern. Suddenly over their bows uprose a black mass. “My God!” cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if hoping to fend off that giant menace. He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its course, and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming liner, had not one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and jerked him sharply back into the boat. A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting voices raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even above the beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky water, arose that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer. “Where the flaming hell are YOU going?” inquired this stentorian voice; “haven't you got any blasted eyes and ears”... High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again--swimming it seemed upon frothing milk. The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote, astern. “Damn close shave!” cried Rogers. “It must be clear ahead; they've just run into it.” One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion, now reported: “Cutter crossing our bow, sir! Getting back to her course.” “Keep her in view,” roared Rogers. “Port, sir!” “How's that?” “Starboard, easy!” “Keep her in view!” “As she is, sir!” Again they settled down to the pursuit, and it began to dawn upon Stringer's mind that the boat ahead must be engined identically with that of the police; for whilst they certainly gained nothing upon her, neither did they lose. “Try a hail,” cried Rogers from the stern. “We may be chasing the wrong boat!” “Cutter 'hoy!” bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in lieu of a megaphone--“heave to!” “Give 'em 'in the King's name!'” directed Rogers again. “Cutter 'hoy,” roared the man through his trumpeted hands,--“heave to--in the King's name!” Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the shouter almost convulsively. “Take no notice, sir,” reported the man.