“He’s running back to Brindisi,” said George. “Will he pursue us in one of those Austrian boats, I wonder?”
“It’s a lost game, I think,” replied Maurice. “It will be dark before he can overtake us, and even his perseverance won’t be able to discover us then. But I wish the Margherita were in sight.”
There were several craft, including a large steamer going south, near the horizon, too far off to be distinguished with any certainty. None of them was the Margherita. The travellers became anxious; had Antonio Fagazzi failed them?
“If she doesn’t appear soon we shall be in a pretty hobble,” said George. “I can’t do more than seven knots on the water.”
“We could steer for Durazzo by your compass if the weather keeps reasonably fine,” suggested Maurice.
“That’s true, but we should consume a terrible quantity of petrol, and probably shouldn’t have enough left for a hundred miles’ run in Albania. Has that skipper sold us?”
“I doubt it. Perhaps he had to wait for the petrol. We had better cruise about, and not too far from Villanuova.”
An hour went by; darkness fell, and they switched on one of the small electric lamps that lit the interior of the car. The wind blew cold, and their spirits sank: the Margherita might easily pass them in the dark, and they hesitated to light the powerful acetylene lamp, lest it attracted foes rather than friends. At last, when they almost despaired, they caught sight of a light some distance out at sea to the north-east. Immediately afterwards a second light appeared, near the first, but swinging like a pendulum.
“I fancy that’s a signal,” said George; “I’ll light our lamp and show it in that direction; it’s too far northward to be seen towards Brindisi.”
“We might make towards it, don’t you think?” said Maurice. “If you find we are wrong, we must try to slip away in the darkness.”