“I guess you’d better call Rutile, Mr. Quentin,” he ordered. “We’ll be passing the yacht the first thing we know.”
Quentin was about to give the order when the operator suddenly began to write.
“Do you hear me?” he scribbled, as the words come through the night. “Answer if you do.”
“I hear,” tapped the operator.
“Am using reduced power. Been ordered to call H. I. M. Kaiserland, supposed to be somewhere near. Can see light from somebody’s funnels and suspect it’s yours or hers. If it’s yours you’re due north of us, mighty near.”
Topham leaped for the companionway. “South by east, Mr. Quentin,” he ordered. “Half speed. Keep sharp lookout! We’re close on her.”
“Tell him that,” he ordered, turning back to the operator.
“Good!” Came the answer. “You don’t want the Kaiserland to beat you to it. She’s an armored cruiser.”
Quentin bent over the cabin skylight. “Saw her funnels flash just now,” he cried, excitedly. “How about the searchlight?”
“Turn it on.”