The very first leg across had carried them out past Black Point, upon which Fort Mason frowned down upon them when they swung close under the shore and went about on the other tack.
At first the Greyhound gained on the Fox, as Merry could see; but as Lord Stanford’s yacht approached the open ocean she found a stronger breeze and danced along in a lively manner.
Other vessels were in the narrows, but there was plenty of room for them all.
Frank had brought a marine glass from below, and he used it to watch the Fox, having permitted Barney to take the helm again.
Merry could see Lord Stanford standing on the deck near the companion way, talking to one of his men. From the manner of the Englishman, it was apparent that he did not suspect he was being pursued.
“So much the better,” muttered the new owner of the Greyhound. “If he does not catch on right away we may be able to overhaul him and lay alongside without being suspected.”
He watched the Fox till it shot out past Fort Point and disappeared beyond the point of land on which the fort was located.
“So they are bound southward,” muttered Merry. “Ten to one they are going down the coast to Santa Cruz—possibly to Santa Barbara, although that is quite a cruise.”
Half an hour later the Greyhound ran out past Fort Point, and the Fox was discovered far away along the coast, steadily bearing to the south.
“We’re after you, my boy,” muttered Frank. “I don’t believe you’ll be able to run away from us in a hurry.”