There was little time, and the visitor, now with three attendant officials, moved slowly across the space.
"God," prayed Allard dumbly, leaning against the gate in anguished waiting. "I think I have paid; but if not, let them shoot—to kill."
The group came nearer, halted. Allard drew himself stiffly erect and raised his hand in salute as the tallest man came opposite, then obeyed a slight movement of direction and stepped behind him. A grating of locks, a brief exchange of compliments, and for the first time in two years the prisoner stood without the barriers. Free, if only for that instant, free, and in reach of the lapping river.
The sailors waited at rigid salute, the visitor stepped into the swaying launch, and as Allard followed the gate closed—behind him. The tiny engine puffed, caught its beat, and the boat darted toward the dim white shape out in the stream.
Lights were flashing up here and there in the buildings, shining through the barred windows. To see the uncheckered sky again!
At the throb of their motor the yacht gleamed unexpectedly into an outline of myriad-pointed fire. Men ran across the decks, a miniature staircase fell in readiness.
"Follow me closely," directed the cool voice, when the launch stopped.
The wet, shining deck, the mutely respectful figures waiting to receive them, all blurred into insignificance for Allard. As his foot touched the yacht, pandemonium broke loose in the prison. Out over shouts and gong crashed the deafening roar of the huge whistle, rousing the country-side for miles around.
"It means?" questioned the master of the situation.
"They know I am missing—and they will think to search the yacht first."