He paused abruptly in his calculations at the staccato bark of a high-powered motor. Mascola, he thought, as he rose and walked to the window. What he saw through the glass caused him to stand staring. Speeding through the dancing waters of the sunlit bay came a speed-launch, heading in the direction of the cannery wharf. But it was not the Fuor d'Italia. His eyes followed the course of the oncoming stranger and a worried frown leaped to his brow. It couldn't be that Joe Barrows had completed the Richard already. He glanced at the calendar and his frown deepened. In all probability it was his boat. And if so, where was he going to get the money to pay for it?
He walked to the wharf and with narrowing eyes watched the stranger's approach. Something wrong somewhere, he reasoned. He had ordered a speed-boat. One that would beat Mascola's. A craft with real lines and bird-like grace like the Fuor d'Italia. The oncoming launch, he observed bitterly, was the direct antithesis of his expectations. Surely there could be
no speed in that squatty packet with her sagging bow and queer looking box-affair for a stern.
The strange craft drew abreast of the wharf and whirled about in a wave-washed circle. The motor hummed with contentment and the hull sank sullenly into the water as the man at the wheel guided the boat in the direction of the float. Then Gregory caught sight of the letters painted on the side:
RICHARD
"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Gregory?"
The man in the boat looked up questioningly.
Gregory walked slowly to the float.
"I'm Mr. Gregory," he answered lifelessly. "I was almost wishing I wasn't if that's the launch I ordered."
The driver of the craft rested his arms on the big steering wheel and laughed outright.