"Pass the word to Jed to watch for signals from me," whispered Tom Halstead, tensely, a few minutes later.
"Then you think——" began the district attorney's assistant eagerly.
"Pass the word for me, please," Tom broke in.
In the gray fog ahead some craft was moving by steam power. Those in the launch could now hear the regular thump-thump, soft though it was, of machinery ahead.
Yet, to most of the silent watchers it came as something of a shock when, out of the mist ahead, there suddenly loomed, indistinctly, the stern of a hull.
Away to starboard sounded the deep whistle of the big steamship, while over to port the bell of that sailing vessel tolled. The noise enabled Halstead to creep in more closely with less dread of being discovered too soon.
A moment's breathlessness, then "Victor—San Francisco" stood out boldly before the eyes of the people in the launch as that boat shot in by the yacht's stern.
They were taking grave chances, now, of being swamped at the very door of success. None knew this better than Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson as they jointly manœuvred to run the tender up stealthily, while Jed Prentiss, trembling inwardly, kept his hand on the lever, ready to obey the slightest signal for speed.
Then, swiftly, Tom Halstead, a rifle strapped over his back, rose in the bow. In one hand he held a line to the other end of which was attached a grappling hook.
With a practiced eye and hand he measured the distance, poising the coil for a throw. Just as the tender stole in closer he made the throw.