The return trip was soon accomplished, but when the boat came to the place where the yacht had been last seen there was not a sign of the White Crest.
“Well, this is what they planned—to give us the slip!” laughed Mr. Dalken, as he motioned the men to keep on and land them on the wharf of Spanish Town.
The hunters returned earlier than had been planned for, hence they had a tiresome wait at Spanish Town for the appearance of the White Crest once more. All they could learn by questioning the loafers at the quay was the fact that the yacht had sailed away. That was self-evident, or else she had gone down. The latter was too impossible for belief so she must have sailed away.
Dinnertime came and passed, still no White Crest. The darkness came over the water and the squatty houses of Spanish Town, and still no yacht. It was close to midnight when the impatient watchers, seated on a crude plank on the wharf, saw a beautiful silvery craft glide up to the mouth of the river and silently drop her anchor.
“Well, there she is, but how are we to reach her?” asked the owner, chewing the end of a cigar.
“We’ll halloo for the Captain to send us the boat,” replied Jack, and immediately Ray and he chorused a loud call for transportation over the bay.
The transfer was made and then, man-like, the hunters all clamored for an explanation. “To think of leaving us stranded all day and half the night!” exclaimed Mr. Ashby.
“We thought you planned to be hunting until sundown,” said Mrs. Ashby.
“And of course you would be worn out when you got back and would appreciate a little quiet on the quay,” added Mrs. Fabian, smilingly.
“Where have you been?” demanded Jack.