There was an hour of parleying. The beleaguered ones signalled with despairing energy; the flag, limp in the damp air above the château, shot up and down in pitiful eagerness.
But the small boat edged away from close proximity to the tug and the near-by dock. They spoke each other at long and ever-widening range. At last, the yacht's boat turned and fled toward the trim white hull.
Almost before the startled, dazed people on the balcony could grasp the full and horrible truth, the yacht had lifted anchor and was slowly headed out to sea.
It was unbelievable!
With stupefied, incredulous eyes, they saw the vessel get quickly under way. She steamed from the pest-ridden harbour with scarcely so much as a glance behind. Then they shouted and screamed after her, almost maddened by this final, convincing proof of the consummate deviltry against which they were destined to struggle.
Chase looked grimly about him, into the questioning, stricken faces of his companions. He drew his hand across his moist forehead.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said seriously and without the faintest intent to jest, "we are supposed to be dead!"
There was a single shriek from the bride of Thomas Saunders; no sound left the dry lips of the other watchers, who stood as if petrified and kept their eyes glued upon the disappearing yacht.
"They have left me here to die!" came from the stiffened lips of the Princess Genevra. "They have deserted me. God in heaven!"
"Look!" cried Chase, pointing to the dock. Half a dozen glasses were turned in that direction.