There was nothing left for the don and Carl to do but to hurry on to the wharf. There, at the landing from which sailboats usually carried the Grampus' crew to the anchorage, half a mile out in the bay, they met a policeman.
"What are you looking for, Don Ramon?" inquired the officer respectfully, touching the don on the shoulder as he and Carl were gazing off across the surface of the bay.
"For the riding lights of the submarine boat, amigo," answered the don.
"You won't see them, sir. The submarine left the harbor four hours ago, bound south."
"Carramba!" cried the don. "We are too late! Tell me, did she have any passengers?"
"Motor Matt and the boat's usual crew were aboard anyhow, I saw Motor Matt and his friend, Ferral, going out."
"Did any one else go out to the boat?"
"Yes, Don Carlos Valdez and four or five negroes. They——"
The don whirled away and caught Carl's arm.
"Too late!" he whispered hoarsely. "But perhaps there is still something we can do. Come! We will call on the American consul; we will tell him what we fear!"