“Do you feel quite sure that she has not yet gone by?” asked Webster at length.
“I’m positive of it,” replied Kenyon. “She had not the time. But she should be due at almost any minute now.”
“Hark, there!” cried the skipper; “do you hear that whistle?”
There came a low, mournful wailing from down river.
“It’s one of those toy sirens that some yachtsmen fit their crafts with,” the skipper informed them. “Like as not this is the vessel you want.”
“Yes; and there goes the Piedmont for her,” said Webster. The coughing exhaust of the unseen power-boat gurgled and volleyed from ahead; and they could see her port light streaming dimly through the fog.
At Kenyon’s order the Vixen swept around and followed the other boat like a beagle. Suddenly the lights of a large yacht stared down at them, from the distance of about twenty-five yards. Then they heard a shrill hail from the deck of the Piedmont.
“Ahoy! Is that the Wizard?”
No reply came from the yacht.
“Hello! is that the yacht Wizard?” came another voice.