Then he put down his glasses suddenly, put out his hand, and rang his engines full ahead.
He turned to the quartermaster at his side.
"Get the Commodore by wireless," he said rapidly; "the Doro has gone."
Gone, indeed, was the Doro—gone six hours since.
They found the lights. They were still burning when the destroyer came up with them.
A roughly built raft with a pole lashed upright, and from this was suspended two lanterns.
Whilst the fleet had watched this raft, the Doro had gone on. Nailed to the pole was a letter. It was sodden with spray, but T. B. had no difficulty in reading it.
"Cher ami," it ran, "much as I value the honour of a naval escort, its presence is embarrassing at the moment. I saw your destroyer this morning through my glasses, and guessed the rest. You are ingenious. Now I understand why you allowed me to escape.
"My respectful salutations to you, oh, most admirable of policemen!"
It was signed, "POLTAVO."