So I chose a set of very dark grey combinations which fastened close up to the neck, and a pair of dark rubber-soled shoes. A dark cloak to wear in the Firefly completed a costume in which I looked like a cross between a Harlequin and a Guy Fawkes conspirator.
By the time these preparations were complete Burroughs had launched the Firefly and we were soon off. The moon was not due for an hour and the night was dark enough to conceal us.
The Firefly glided almost noiselessly through the waters at the slow pace we deemed best, and we switched off the motor every now and again and let the boat drift. The darkness made it a little difficult to pick up the Rampallo, which had no light, but Burroughs glanced now and then at the compass by the flash of an electric torch, and thus kept his course.
“What weapon have you?” he whispered once.
“Why, none, of course. I’m not going throat-slitting. I am only going to use my ears.”
“There she is,” he said suddenly, and pointed ahead. His eyes were keener than mine, but I made her out soon afterwards.
We drifted down close to her, keeping our eyes fixed on her for any sign that a look-out was kept.
“I don’t think there is any one on the deck,” he whispered.
She was lying between us and the twinkling lamps of the city, and as we drifted nearer, her outline showed up against the lights and the reflexion of them in the sky.
All was as still as a vault; and not a single porthole gave out so much as the glimmer of a match.