"We will wait here until the boat leaves," said Father Honoré, stepping inside to a dark wind-sheltered angle of the house.
"It's a wild goose chase we're on," muttered his companion after a while. The next moment he laid a heavy hand on the priest's arm, gripping it hard, every muscle tense.
A heavy brewery team, drawn by noble Percherons, rumbled past them down the slip. On it, behind the driver's seat, was the figure of a man, crouched low. Had it not been for the bandaged arm and the unnatural contour it gave to the body's profile, they might have failed to recognize him. The two stood motionless in the blackness of the inner angle, pressing close to the iron pillars as their man passed them at a distance of something less than twelve feet. The warning bell rang; they hurried on board.
After the boat was well out into the harbor, the detective entered the cabin to investigate. He returned to report to Father Honoré that the man was not inside.
"Outside then," said the priest, drawing a sharp short breath.
The two made their way forward, keeping well behind the team. Father Honoré saw Champney standing by the outside guard chain. He was whitened by the clinging snow. The driver of the team sang out to him: "I say, pardner, you'd better come inside!"
He neither turned nor spoke, but, bracing himself, suddenly crouched to the position for a standing leap, fist clenched....
A great cry rang out into the storm-filled night:
"Champney!"
The two men flung themselves upon him as he leaped, and in the ensuing struggle the three rolled together on the deck. He fought them like a madman, using his bandaged arm, his feet, his head. He was powerful with the fictitious strength of desperation and thwarted intent. But the two men got the upper hand, and, astride the prostrate form, the detective forced on the handcuffs. At the sound of the clinking irons, the prisoner suffered collapse then and there.