“But Chicago's a bad town. I might get away from you.”
“We won't worry about that.”
“Do you carry the things on you? I never saw any.”
Beveridge drew a pair from his hip pocket, and handed them to Henry.
“How do they work?”
“Easily. Slip them on—this way.”
There was a click and Henry's hands were chained together.
“That's easy enough, isn't it?” said he, walking a few steps up and down the deck, surveying himself. Then he went to the rail and leaned on it, looking silently off toward the lights.
Just what came next, Dick never could remember. He had turned away to gaze at the alternating red-and-white lights that marked Grosse Pointe and home, so that he saw little more than Henry's swift movement and Beveridge's start. An instant more and he was standing at the rail with Beveridge, in the place where Henry had been standing a moment before—gazing down at the foam that fell away from the bows. He heard the special agent sing out: “Stop her, stop her, Cap'n! Man overboard!” He was conscious that the engines had stopped; and he heard the Captain's voice from the bridge: “No use! He went under the wheel!” Then came the order to lower a boat, and the rush of feet across the deck.