Three minutes later the submarine crept out into the bay upon which the dock gave. The object of the conspirators’ plotting had been attained; the scheme was a gigantic success.
The three scoundrels were not a little pleased with themselves as the boat glided swiftly across the bay under the guidance of the leader.
They jested and laughed, flavouring their conversation with many an oath, as they pictured to their own delight the mortification of the inventor, whose craft they had stolen.
Their mirth would perhaps have been less hilarious had they noted the grim figure creeping along the corridor below, towards the foot of the steps.
“Jesting apart,” said the leader at length, “it’s a marvellous vessel. With this craft, armed in an up-to-date manner, we shall have the shipping of the entire world at our mercy. Not a warship on the seas will be able to resist us.”
“For which we have to thank our estimable friend, the inventor,” returned one of his companions with a grin.
At that moment there came a flash, twice repeated, from the darkness far ahead.
“The Night Hawk!” cried the leader; “it is——”
“Checkmate, gentlemen,” drawled a quiet voice behind them.
At the words the three turned, to look into the gleaming barrel of Haverly’s revolver.