“All right. Tell us.” Kennedy’s voice softened a little as he spoke to the youth. “Where is my granddaughter?”
“They took her to the submarine,” said the boy.
“The submarine?” Kennedy stared.
“Yes. There is a submarine,” said the boy. “They are making a survey of the sea-bottom around these islands! Don’t you see,” the boy seemed anxious to please, “in time of war, they shall place depth bombs and steel nets—and establish submarine bases!”
“I see,” Kennedy replied in a low tone that was not good to hear. “Very nice, I should say. We seem to have stumbled into the situation at about the right time!
“But my granddaughter.” His voice rose. “She is on this submarine?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then,” roared Kennedy, “we shall find the submarine! And if we do not—or if my granddaughter has been harmed—!” He laid his machete, sheath and all, across the stout man’s throat. And the stout man turned a sickish, yellow-green. And not without reason.
“Get up!” commanded Kennedy. The two men stood up. “I’ll guard them,” he said to Johnny. “You and the natives search this place. Gather up every scrap of paper to be found. There should be ample evidence of this espionage. And—there is not a moment to be lost!”
“Not a second,” said Johnny.