From the direction of the boathouse sounds of pursuit could be heard.
"Tumble in, George," called Matt. "You can finish that from inside the boat."
McGlory gave his cousin a hand and Matt started the propeller.
Taking the launch up the river on such a night was hazardous in the extreme. But Matt had the bearings of the stream in his head, and he urged the Sprite boldly onward.
From behind them, somewhere, a revolver was fired. The leaden missile caused no damage, and the launch rushed on into the gloom.
Lorry, who knew the river well, pushed to Matt's side to be of what help he could.
"You never had a better chance to wreck a boat, Motor Matt," said Lorry, "than you've got right now."
"I'm hoping for the best," returned Matt. "Instinct, more than anything else, is guiding me. I don't know, but I seem to feel it when we're going wrong."
It was the same instinct, perhaps, which carries a horse over the right road when the rider is lost, or that carries a bird miles and miles through the air to the same nest in the same tree of the forest.
This was not the first time Matt had profited by that vague intuition. It was almost like a sixth sense.