“Look out yonder,” said the policeman, a native of the place; “is it likely they’ll find him there?”
“Hah!” ejaculated the detective.
“And there’s no such current anywhere for miles along the coast as runs off here.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the man again, as he stood now watching the lights, one of which kept growing more distant, while the hails somehow seemed to be more faint and wild, and at last to resemble the despairing cries of drowning men.
“Listen,” whispered the detective in an awe-stricken tone, as he strove to pierce the darkness out to sea.
“It was Master Leslie, that,” said the second policeman; “I know his hail.”
Just then there was a wild hysterical fit of sobbing, and George Vine rose slowly from his knees, and staggered towards the group.
“Luke!” he cried, in a half-stunned, helpless way, “Luke, you know—Where are you? Luke!”
“Here, George,” said Uncle Luke sadly, for he had knelt down in the place his brother had occupied the moment before.
“You know the currents. Will they—will he—”