The driver looked surprised.
“Don’t know!” he exclaimed in a puzzled way. “Well, that is strange.”
“Is Black Point anywhere near North Beach?” asked Frank, hurriedly.
“Sure,” nodded the driver.
“Then take us out that way,” ordered Frank, as he bundled Barney into the cab, followed himself and slammed the door.
The driver whipped up his horses, and away they went with a rattlety-bump just as Hans came waddling out of the hotel, crying for them to hold on.
Frank looked at his watch.
“Five minutes of ten,” he said. “We shall get there at a quarter after ten. Even that may be too late.”
“Howly Mowses!” exclaimed Barney. “It’s the divvil’s own rush ye do be in, an’ ye don’t same to be in a hurry, ayther. But how are we going to foind Lord Stanford’s yacht, afther we get there, Frankie? Oi’d loike to have yez explain.”
“That’s something—I can’t tell—yet,” acknowledged Frank, as the cab dashed around a corner and pitched them into a heap against one side. “We’ll have to—hunt for—it.”