“All right!”
For a minute—or a fraction of one—during which the still-puzzled skipper ascended to the deck, Sawyer stood behind the sailcloth portière. Then he swung out and strode down the saloon with an official step that no one could mistake.
He stopped opposite Clayton and looked him steadily in the eye. Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, he said coldly:
“Paul Clayton! That is your name?”
“Yes.”
“I am from police headquarters, New York. You are under arrest.”
CHAPTER III.
A POINT FOR THE ARCHCROOK.
For the merest part of a second Paul Clayton neither moved nor spoke. Then his hand shot down to a side pocket and came up with a heavy revolver.
The officer had been looking for some such move. He seized the young man’s wrist and gave it a wrench that caused the weapon to fall clattering to the floor.