To seaward the Swiftsure, "Peeping Tom" and his sister were still keeping up their noisy game of "Peep Bo", I spot you!—Bang! No, you don't!
But for that, and the gurgling under the bows, and the soft grating of the engines, there wasn't a sound. Not a sound came from the shore close to them, not even a dog barked.
The Sub grew restless. He knew that the two trawlers and the Swiftsure's picket-boat must already be sweeping through the mine-field and expecting to see the red light to guide them.
He swore at the Turks, cursed himself, and above all he cursed "Glaring Gertrude" and the fort for making the darkness so pitch black round the picket-boat.
He steered out towards the opposite shore until he almost ran into the big search-light's beam, swung her round, and made another "cast", but the blackness away from the glare and in the shadow of the fort was absolutely inky.
No buoy could he find.
He looked at the luminous face of his wrist watch. "It's getting on for eleven," he said bitterly. "The trawlers must have nearly finished."
"There's a light, sir! Look, sir! To seaward!" a man called excitedly.
"Keep quiet, you fool," growled Jarvis, "or you'll wake them Turks."
They all looked back towards the mine-field, and saw a small white light—like a small star twinkling low down on the water—between them and the Swiftsure.