He sat up as I crawled in; but beyond exchanging a couple of remarks as to the quickness with which we were overtaking our quarry, we neither of us made any attempt at conversation. I was in too keen a state of suspense to talk; while Wilton, I should think, was a naturally taciturn person even for a detective. Anyhow, we sat there in silence, listening to the throbbing of the engine and the ceaseless swish of the water as it raced past the side of the boat.
How long our vigil lasted I can't say. It was broken at last by the appearance of Billy, who dropped down into the little well outside the cabin and thrust his head in through the door.
"We're just coming up alongside of 'em," he said, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. "There are three men on deck, but they don't seem to suspect anything."
"Sangatte?" I asked eagerly.
He shook his head. "No sign of him or Mercia; they must be down below."
I rose to my feet, followed by Wilton.
"We three are to make the first shot," went on Billy. "Cumming's going to run her alongside suddenly, and we must jump for the rails. One ought to be just able to do it from the cabin top."
"And then?" I asked; for I knew Billy would have planned the whole thing out.
He tapped his pistol pocket with a contented smile. "Then it will be up to me to keep order on deck while you and Wilton go below and rout out Mercia. The chauffeur's staying in the boat. He wanted to stick to us, but we must have someone to help Cumming."
He swung himself out of the well on to the narrow deck, and Wilton and I followed suit. We were running level with the Seagull at a distance of about thirty yards. The three men on her deck were not paying much attention to us. One of them was steering—the other two busy attending to the coiling of some loose rope. At the tiller of our own boat sat Cumming—a cigarette in his mouth, and his eyes fixed innocently on the water ahead.