l 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.

"Then it's the gang!" cried Rogers from the stern; "and we haven't made
a mistake. Where the blazes are we?"

"Well on the way to Blackwall Reach, sir," answered someone. "Fog
lifting ahead."

"It's the rain that's doing it," said the man beside Stringer.

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, dow