“Where is he? Is he swimming for the boat?” cried a voice, hardly recognisable in its hoarse excitement for that of Duncan Leslie.
“He jumped off, Mr Leslie, sir,” shouted one of the policemen.
“Row, my lads. Pull!” shouted Leslie; “right out.”
“No, no,” roared the detective; “take me aboard. In the Queen’s name, stop!”
“Pull,” cried Leslie to the men; and then turning to the detective, “While we stopped to take you the man would drown, and you couldn’t get aboard at this time of the tide.”
“He’s quite right,” said the policeman who had last spoken. “It’s risky at any time; it would be madness now.”
The detective stamped, as in a weird, strange way the voices kept coming from out of the darkness, where two dim stars could be seen, as the lanterns were visible from time to time; and now Leslie’s voice followed the others, as he shouted:
“This way, Vine, this way. Hail, man! Why don’t you hail?”
“Is this part of the trick to get him away?” whispered the detective to one of his men. The man made no reply, and his silence was more pregnant than any words he could have spoken.
“But they’ll pick him up,” he whispered, now impressed by the other’s manner.