“It’s not worth worrying about, now,” growled Stringer. “Let’s have a look at the time.”
He fumbled inside his overcoat and tugged out his watch.
“Here’s a light,” said Rogers, and shone the ray of an electric torch upon the watch-face.
“A quarter-to-three,” grumbled Stringer. “There may be murder going on, and here we are.”…
A sudden clamor arose upon the shore, near by; a sound as of sledge-hammers at work. But above this pierced shrilly the call of a police whistle.
“What’s that?” snapped Rogers, leaping up. “Stand by there!”
The sound of the whistle grew near and nearer; then came a voice—that of Sergeant Sowerby—hailing them through the fog.
“Dunbar’s in! But the gang have escaped! They’ve got to a motor launch twenty yards down, on the end of the creek”…
But already the police boat was away.
“Let her go!” shouted Rogers—“close inshore! Keep a sharp lookout for a cutter, boys!”
Stringer, aroused now to excitement, went blundering forward through the fog, joining the men in the bows. Four pairs of eyes were peering through the mist, the damnable, yellow mist that veiled all things.
“Curse the fog!” said Stringer; “it’s just our damn luck!”
