Ouro Preto spread out his hands. “Very easily,” he explained. “I carry much gold. The man on watch at the steamer’s quarter wanted it, and so—Oh! It was easy. But”—he looked up—“But, senorita, here is the Windbird. The men will lift you on board.”
At full speed the boat came slopping alongside. Two of the sailors dropped their oars and dragged the girl into the boat, and an instant later Ouro Preto clambered in beside her. Two minutes later both were on board the Windbird.
As Lillian, dripped and bedraggled but unconquered, went to her cabin, she and the wireless operator met face to face. For one breathless instant she hesitated; then Rutile lifted his cap and stepped aside.
“Pardon, fraulein,” he said.
Miss Byrd bowed in acknowledgment. “On guard!” she whispered.
CHAPTER XXVII
Through the night, full speed, with all lights extinguished, ran the Watson, her only guide the information contained in Rutile’s brief and indefinite message over the wireless. If this were correct—if the yacht had indeed run due east for half an hour and if she should continue in the same direction and at the same speed, and if her speed were about 18 knots an hour (as it probably was), it was a mere matter of calculation to determine where and when the Watson would overtake her.
But there were many “ifs” in these premises. The night was dark; the moon had set hours before, and the stars were invisible behind a light film of clouds. If the Windbird should run without lights, as she certainly would if Ouro Preto should suspect pursuit (and as she might in any case), she would be invisible even at close range, unless betrayed by the glow from her funnels. To find her without further help from Rutile would be like seeking a needle in the darkest sort of a haystack. Even with Rutile’s aid, Topham felt that he had no right to hope to find her while night lasted. He did hope, however, to hang so closely on her heels that her smoke should be visible above the horizon when morning dawned.
Swiftly the moments sped by, and steadily the destroyer ate up the miles supposed to intervene between her and the yacht. No further signals came, and Topham, not knowing what conditions might be on the Windbird or who might read off any message that he might send flying through the dark, forebore to call, despite Quentin’s advice to take the chance.
He yielded only when the Watson had reached the spot where calculation placed the Windbird.