of police acting on anyone else's orders?" quavered the
old man. "Has Fred betrayed himself in anything he has done? Is he
a fugitive from justice? Oh, mercy! What a situation just when I am
trying to put the deals through that shall make the Rhinds Submarine
Company the richest concern of its kind in the world!"

By the middle of the afternoon Rhinds heard the newsboys calling
something excitedly down in the street.

"What's that? What's that?" gasped the old man, holding one hand to
his ear. "Sounds like 'Dastardly plot--submarine mystery.' Can it be
anything to injure our chances?"

As he looked down into the street, from the altitude of the third floor
window, Rhinds saw that, whatever the news, the boys appeared to be
selling papers fast.

For a few seconds Rhinds wavered. Then he crossed the room to the
telephone.

"Send me up the latest editions of the newspapers," he 'phoned the
clerk in the office. After that he lighted a big, black cigar--and
waited, mopping the perspiration from his forehead.

After a few moments there came a knock at the door, and Rhinds opened
it. He noticed that the bell-boy looked at him somewhat queerly as the
papers were handed over. Then, having closed the door and locked it,
John Rhinds sank into a chair, holding up three newspapers, in turn,
and scanning the big, black headlines.

Yes; here it all was--the whole story in every essential detail. It
told of the mysterious attempt to destroy the "Hastings" at the end of
the lightning cruise. The stories contained Lieutenant Danvers's
statement that the "Thor" had been headed toward the "Hastings" just
a few seconds before the torpedo passed the Pollard boat's bows.
There was an account of the naval party's search of the "Thor," and
the fact that the latter craft was found to have her full number of
torpedoes on board was set forth in all fairness. Oh, yes! The story
was fair enough! No newspapermen could have been fairer than had the
chroniclers of this exciting submarine news. There were no accusations
against Rhinds or his associates--nothing but the fair, unbiased
telling of facts. And yet, in almost any reader's mind the opinion
would be quick to form that only from the "Thor" could the treacherous
torpedo have been fired.

"Oh, it's--it's awful!" cried John Rhinds, waving the papers over his
head like a madman.

Jack Benson had played his master stroke in this new game.

In former times, when the Poll