In the hotel office they learned that Bob and Dick had gone out to the submarine early in the evening to arrange some stores that had been taken aboard. They had not come back, so the inference was that they were staying the night on the craft.
There was nothing left for the don and Carl to do but to hurry on to the wharf. There, at the landing from which sailboats usually carried the Grampus’ crew to the anchorage, half a mile out in the bay, they met a policeman.
“What are you looking for, Don Ramon?” inquired the officer respectfully, touching the don on the shoulder as he and Carl were gazing off across the surface of the bay.
“For the riding lights of the submarine boat,” answered the don.
“You won’t see them, sir. The submarine left the harbor four hours ago, bound south.”
“We are too late!” cried the don. “Tell me, did she have any passengers?”
“Bob Steele and the boat’s usual crew were aboard anyhow. I saw Bob Steele and his friend Ferral going out.”
“Did any one else go out to the boat?”
“Yes, Don Carlos Valdez and four or five negroes. They——”
The don whirled away and caught Carl’s arm.