fell beyond her reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled from the stern…
The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove to grasp it…
Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping—seeking—clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her floating hair…
“Here goes!” roared Rogers.
They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and round…
Down swept the eager wave…down—down—down…It lapped over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused, tremulous—dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune—then leaped on—away—headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.
“God’s mercy!” whispered Stringer—“that was touch-and-go!”
No living thing moved upon the waters.
