“Then they have got another sub!” exclaimed Rawlins. “I knew it! Darn it all, why didn’t we get him here first thing? We might have got wise to where they are.”
“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Pauling, “but I doubt it. They would not be likely to give away any secrets.”
“Now see here, Smernoff!” cried Mr. Henderson sharply. “You want to be free—you want to go to Russia. Well, you tell us where we’ll find this crowd and I’ll get you a pardon, see? Now out with it! Where does the crowd hang out—where do they stay? Not the chief—I don’t believe you know that—but where do they keep that submarine and where did you live?”
Smernoff listened, a perplexed frown on his low forehead.
“Me, I no know,” he replied. “Leetle islan’; Me, I no know hees name. He near one beeg place, one place me, I hear heem say call what you call heem Sam Dora—San Dom—me, I forget heem.”
“Santo Domingo!” shouted Rawlins. “Was that it, Smernoff?”
The Russian’s eyes lit up. “Sure!” he replied “That eet. Me I hear those fellow say beeg islan’ San Dom—San Dom’go.”
“I’ll say that’s a tip!” cried Rawlins, his face fairly beaming. “Hitches right onto the schooner left at the Caicos too. They’re almost due north of Santo Domingo and I’ll bet it’s one of those cays. Come on, let’s beat it.”
Ten minutes later the cay was a rapidly fading patch of green behind them and at her top speed the submarine tore through the smooth sea with her bow pointed for the Caicos Islands.
But before they reached their goal their hopes were dashed, for through the air from an invisible destroyer lurking below the horizon came a long cypher message from Disbrow which, when decoded, informed those upon the submarine that the deserted schooner had disappeared—vanished as mysteriously and completely as had her crew, and that a careful search of the islands had failed to reveal a sign of her or of the missing men.