Great plumes of water shot up into the air. It did not prove a short race by any means. It took half an hour for the pursuer to overhaul the pursued.
"Is that Jones?"
"Yes." Felton fired his revolver into the air in hopes of terrifying Jones' engineer; but there was five hundred dangling before that individual's eyes.
"Let them get a little nearer," shouted the butler.
The engineer let down the speed a notch. The other boat crept up within twenty yards. Jones sought a perfect range. He would have to find this spot again.
"Surrender!" yelled Felton.
In reply Jones raised the precious box and deliberately dropped it into the sea. Then he turned his automatic upon his pursuers and succeeded in setting their boat afire.
All this within the space of an hour. During dinner that night (there was now a cook) Jones walked about the dining-table, rubbing his hands together from time to time.
"Jones," said Florence, "why do you rub your hands like that?"
"Was I rubbing my hands, Miss Florence?" he asked innocently.