Osborne glanced at the felucca. The helmsman had just been relieved, No. 0916 slowing down to enable the change of crew to be effected.
"All right there, Smith?" he hailed.
"All correct, sir," was the reply. "The lubbers under hatches are as quiet as mice."
"Very good," continued the Lieutenant. "I may have to cast you adrift. If so, can you manage to set sail on the foremast and steer to the west'ard? We'll wireless for assistance and pick you up."
"Ay, ay, sir," was the imperturbable response.
The possibility of being adrift, single-handed, with a crew of cut-throats in the hold, never troubled the bluejacket in the slightest. He was a firm believer in the creed, "Duty is duty".
The patrol-boat was already cleared for action, but until Osborne was certain of the intentions of the approaching vessel he refrained from casting off the hawser. It was as well to mislead the stranger concerning the speed of No. 0916.
Without warning, the pursuing craft opened fire with a couple of light guns that were hitherto concealed behind hinged plating in the bows. Yet, contrary to all the international rules of war, she still made no attempt to display her colours.
The projectiles flew wide, one ricochetting a hundred yards on the patrol-boat's starboard quarter, the other churning up a column of spray a cable's length ahead; but there was now no doubt as to the unknown vessel's intentions.
With the report of the guns a succession of shrieks emanated from the patrol-boat's forepeak. The spy, Hymettus, almost frantic with terror, was clamouring to be released.