Of course, if the yacht were to start, a different story might be told.
Nick could climb anywhere that a man might expect to be able to go, and soon he went nimbly up the stern of the yacht, taking advantage of every ledge and protection on the way, until he was safely on deck.
He lay down flat behind the log cabin.
It was a handsome vessel, this yacht. Polished brass, white paint, silken curtains at the windows, and every equipment perfect of its kind, told the detective that no expense had been spared to make the vessel a fine one.
Nick Carter was a yachtsman, and he could appreciate every point of excellence—many of which might have escaped the eye of a person who knew less than himself about such things.
Cautiously he crept to the side of the cabin on the landward side. Here he was in deep shadow, for the slowly rising moon, partly obscured by clouds, was on the opposite side of the river.
“That fellow either has a very large cigar, or he smokes it very slowly,” muttered Nick Carter. “I wish he’d get through and go below. Then there might be a chance for me to find out whether Prince Marcos is aboard.”
He pulled himself to his feet, so that, when he stepped upon a block, his eyes were above the level of the cabin roof.
Here he had a good view of the smoker’s feet, only a few yards away, and could see that the man was leaning back comfortably in a deck chair, apparently quite content with the way things were going.
“I wish I could see that chap’s face,” reflected Nick. “His general shape is like that of the bigger of the two men I had the argument with at the Supremacy. Still, there are thousands of men in New York of about his build, so that proves nothing.”