There was a hurried tread of feet on the land from around the corner of a bleak, forbidding black warehouse.
They were surrounded. On one side was the police boat Patrol. On the other was Drummond. With both was the Secret Service. The surprise was complete.
Constance turned to Gordon. He was gone.
Before she could move, some one seized her.
"Where's Santos?" demanded a hoarse voice in her ear. She looked up to see Drummond.
She shut her lips tightly, secure in the secret that Ramon was at the moment or soon would be on the Gulf, out of reach.
Across in the fog she strained her eyes. Was that the familiar figure of Gordon moving in the dim light?
There he was, now,—with Drummond, the police, and the Secret Service. It was exactly as she had suspected to herself, and a smile played over her face.
All was excitement, shouts, muttered imprecations. Constance was the calmest in the crowd—deaf to even Drummond's "third degree."
They had begun to break open the boxes marked "salt" and "corn."