Presently he came to an upright crowbar in a heap of boxes, which Corny had been using to pry loose each case in order to pass the bight of a line around it. Dennis found two loose boxes and made fast two of his lines; but without tying himself to the pile, he could not use the crowbar—his own buoyancy was too great. So, to save time, he passed on to some scattered cases ahead.
At this juncture, his remaining two lines fouled about his dragging air hose. When at length he got them extricated and clear, he had great difficulty in maintaining his balance against the set of the tide. But at length he got the first line fast to a box, and with the second line he secured another.
As he straightened up and grasped his safety-line to signal the steward that he was ready to ascend, he observed a great shadowy mass in the water ahead. Accustomed to the gloom by this time, he perceived that the mass was the after-end of the John Simpson, reaching up through the water on a sharp incline.
He tugged at his line. To his amazement he felt no resistance whatever. He tugged harder, more sharply—and the line coiled snakily toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp click behind his ear; the safety valve in his helmet had snapped shut. His air-tight hose and his line had been parted!
In this supreme moment, when he faced inescapable death, Tom Dennis felt none of his previous fear. His brain worked like a clock.
He knew that either from the stern above, or from the water beneath he had been cut off and left to die. He had been too slow—he had failed to heed his inward premonitions. And the sheer horror of it was that he would not die for a comparatively long time. There was sufficient air in his helmet and in the bellying folds of his rubber suit to sustain life for several minutes!
What good would this do him? None! What good would it do him to reach the line he had made fast to boxes? None. This was no accident. The ends of his lines told him that they had been cut clean, severed. Those above would disregard any possible signals, would let him perish miserably. He could depend upon no one. He was trapped, helpless, murdered!
Then suddenly, Dennis perceived something in the water behind him. He turned.
Not a dozen feet distant, another diver stood there, helmet turned toward him watching. Through the thick glass Dennis glimpsed keen dark eyes, a gleam of white teeth; this was not Pontifex at all. Recognition came to him, and a thin cry escaped his lips—Dumont! Here was the murderer!
Dennis gripped his knife, half-minded to retaliate upon this assassin who had cut his lines; for in the man's hand he dimly caught the glitter of steel. But, as Dennis tensed himself for the leap, he checked the movement—another dim figure had appeared!