ppeared to fall--oaths, a chorus of them, as she went on again.

They had not gained on her before; but with the weight in her arms,
especially as she was obliged to carry it awkwardly in order to shield
it from their view with her body, she could not run so fast now, and
they were beginning to close up on her. But she was on the wharf now,
and there was not much farther to go, and--and surely she could hold all
the lead she needed until she reached the edge.

The light from the arc lamp held her in view again out here on the wharf
where she was clear of the shed; but she knew they would not fire at her
except as a last resort. They could not afford to sound an alarm that
would attract notice to the spot--when they had, or believed they had,
both the Adventurer and the White Moll within their grasp now.

She was running now with short, hard, panting gasps. There were still
five yards to go-three-one! She looked around her like a hunted animal
at bay, as she reached the end of the wharf and stood there poised at
the edge. Yes, thank God, they were still far enough behind to give her
the few seconds she needed! She cried out loudly as though in despair
and terror--and sprang from the edge of the wharf. And as she sprang she
dropped the casting; but even as it struck the water with a loud
splash, Rhoda Gray, in frantic haste, was crawling in through the little
locker-like opening under the decked-over bow of the half scow, half
boat into which she had leaped. And quick as a flash, huddled inside,
she reached out and drew the heap of what proved to be sailcloth nearer
to her to cover the opening-and lay still.

A few seconds passed; then she heard them at the edge of the wharf, and
heard Danglar s voice.

"Watch where she comes up! She can't get away!"

A queer, wan smile twisted Rhoda Gray's lips. The casting had served her
well; the splash had been loud enough! She listened, straining her ears
to catch every sound from above. It was miserably small this hiding
place into which she had crawled, scarcely large enough to hold her--she
was beginning to be painfully cramped and uncomfortable already.

Another voice, that she recognized as Pinkie Bonn's now, reached her:

"It's damned hard to spot anything out there; the water's blacker'n
hell."

Came a savage and impatient oath from Danglar.

"She's got to come up, ain't she--or drown!" he rasped. "Maybe she's
swum under the wharf, or maybe she's swum under water far