Much as a bank teller detects instantly a counterfeit bill or coin, he picked his man. He was quick to feel the difference between a right-minded man who has fallen into wrong ways and the really wrong-minded man. His course tonight was a triumph. He had given his prisoner the means to lead his little party to destruction, but he knew perfectly that nothing of the sort would be done. More, the only man aboard who could prove in court that he had gone over that vague thing, the boundary line, was this same prisoner, who should, by all sensible thinking, be the last man to trust with such information; and yet he felt perfectly comfortable as he leaned out a little way and watched the foam slipping away from the bow.
The launch went on toward the increasing shadows, plunged through the surf, and glided into the cove.
“See anything?” whispered Beveridge.
“Not a thing,” Smiley replied.
“She isn't here, eh?”
“No, neither of them.”
“Neither of what?”
“Neither the Anne nor the Estelle, Spencer's schooner. Shall we go back outside?”
“Yes.”
“You speak to the engineer, then. This bell makes too much noise.”