“Say, you ain’t the river police?”
“I’m Inspector French from headquarters,” was the curt reply. “The sooner you hand him over, the better for you.”
“Do you hear that, O’Toole?” the other remarked, swinging round on his heel. “Get up, you blackguard!”
A man rose from underneath the oilskin. He was wearing Craig’s clothes, but his face was the face of a stranger. As quick as lightning, Quest swung round in his place.
“He’s fooled us again!” he exclaimed. “Head her round, Captain—back to the Durham!”
The sailor shook his head.
“We’ve lost our chance, guvnor,” he pointed out, “Look!”
Quest set his teeth and gripped the Inspector’s arm. The place where the Durham had been anchored was empty. Already, half a mile down the river, with a trail of light behind and her siren shrieking, the Durham was standing out seawards.