Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer’s hand. This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down came the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the atmosphere, as a painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from his canvas. Long tails of yellow vapor, twining—twining—but always coiling downward, floated like snakes about them; and the oily waters of the Thames became pock-marked in the growing light.
Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry—a very rakish-looking motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of them. He quivered with excitement.
“Do you know the boat?” cried Rogers, addressing his crew in general.
“No, sir,” reported his second-in-command; “she’s a stranger to me. They must have kept her hidden somewhere.” He turned and looked back into the group of faces, all directed toward the strange craft. “Do any of you know her?” he demanded.
A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.
“But she can shift,” said one of the men. “They must have been going slow through the fog; she’s creeping up to ten or twelve knots now, I should reckon.”
“Your reckoning’s a trifle out!” snapped Rogers, irritably, from the stern; “but she’s certainly
