Though Reade remained up until broad daylight no further sign of the unknown enemies was seen. Through the night, had it not been for the patrols walking up and down the line of wall with lanterns, it would have been hard to realize that the big breakwater was haunted by any such desperately practical group of "ghosts."
"I guess we've heard the last of the rascals," suggested Harry Hazelton one night at supper. Messrs. Bascomb and Prenter had returned to Mobile, so that the young engineers and their superintendent were the only men at table.
"My guess is about the same," drawled Mr. Renshaw.
"Yes?" queried Reade. "Guess again!"
"Oh, I believe they've quit," argued Mr. Renshaw. "For one thing, the scoundrels probably have discovered that detectives from Mobile are down here trying to run 'em to earth. That has scared the rascals away."
"What are the detectives doing, anyway?" asked Harry.
"Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him. The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to work—-or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for the detectives."
Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand.
"Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you."
Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying: