It was a gain of a couple of minutes. By this time the Alerte was lifting to the fairly heavy rollers coming in from the English Channel. With her additional top-hamper she was rolling pretty heavily.
But by this time the Customs' boatmen had thought better of it. Boarding an outward-bound vessel was not such an imperative duty as examining one "come foreign." It wasn't worth the risk of having their boat stove-in and finding themselves in the ditch on a cold November night. A breaking sea sweeping clean over the canopy decided the question.
Without a word, the motor-launch's helm was put hard over. Listing dangerously, she flung about and disappeared into the darkness.
Thoughtfully, Trevorrick put a stopper round a piece of pig-iron lying in the scuppers.
St. Anthony Light blinked knowingly away on the Alerte's port quarter.
"Well?" inquired Pengelly, stamping aft. He had put Marchant on duty in the eyes of the ship, since there was now plenty of sea-room.
"We'll submerge off Helford," decided Trevorrick. "Wind's off the land. It'll give the crew a chance to exercise. Get the hands to stand by with the mast-lowering tackles."
Twenty minutes later the Alerte, with masts and funnel lowered, slowed down a couple of miles due east of Mawnan Chair. A cast of the lead gave sufficient depth.
"Hands to diving stations!" roared Trevorrick, his words recalling incidents of long-past days when under better auspices he had held command of a submarine flying the white ensign.
Quickly the crew disappeared below. Giving a final glance round, Trevorrick followed Pengelly through the hatchway, which closed after them with a metallic clang.