And then the Piedmont crept away again, resuming her cruising up and down. At this point Dallas re-appeared upon deck.
“I thought I heard someone calling,” she said.
“You did,” answered Kenyon. “We’ve come up with the other boat that the captain was telling us of.”
She gave a little gasp and looked off in the direction of the now distant boat.
“Do you know,” she whispered in a frightened sort of way, “that sound out there reminds me of the cough of Hong Yo.” She had placed her hand upon his arm, and he could feel the shudder that ran through her. “Oh, how I fear that man.”
“You have excellent cause. The man from Butte was close to the truth when he called him a dying devil.”
She gave him a quick, surprised glance but said nothing.
“The murder of that man was one of the worst exhibitions of deadly ferocity that I ever saw—and my career in South America was not without its experiences.”
“It was dreadful,” said the girl, shudderingly, and she covered her face with her hands.
Now and then a steam vessel would pass them in the darkness, and the skipper of the Vixen would hail its deck and draw alongside. But they were mostly tugs and “truck” boats; as yet no yacht had split the murk.