As they were on that side of the river, in the shadow of the Palisades, Nick kept his launch parallel with the bank, taking note of all the lights he saw, but not finding any that belonged to the kind of steam yacht he wanted to find.
They got to the end of the fifteen miles of Palisades, and found themselves moving along opposite the irregular hills and bluffs one sees farther up the river.
Houses nestle among the hills at intervals, and many dusty ribbons of roadway may be discerned criss-crossed here and there, peeping out of thickets, twisting around the shoulder of a hill, or coming seemingly straight out of the ground. The scenery along the Hudson is generally diversified and always beautiful.
Suddenly a fair-sized house appeared to jump from the blackness of a wooded slope they were passing, with lights in some of the windows.
“That’s a pleasant-looking home,” observed Nick Carter, as he kept his wheel steady while glancing at the shore on his left. “Within easy motoring distance of New York, and yet out in the country entirely.”
The girl said something quietly in assent. Then she broke out, in a tense tone:
“Isn’t that the yacht we want? It looks different from the others we have seen, and it agrees with the description we got from Phillips so far as I can make out.”
“You’re right, I think,” returned Nick, in a low tone. “But don’t speak loud. If that is the yacht, we may be sure they are on the watch for attack. They will think the police may hear of their performance at Crownledge. That would naturally mean pursuit.”
He ran the launch silently toward shore, the maneuver bringing the outline of the yacht between him and the faint moonlight showing in the sky.
“I see a man in a chair on the roof of the cabin,” he whispered. “He is smoking.”