“Got him! He’s there all right!” she exclaimed triumphantly a few minutes later. “He answers ‘O.K.’”
It was Jules, who for three days had been cruising off Cape Gallo in a motor-launch, ready to dash to their rescue if anything went wrong as they crossed the Adriatic, and who was now heading in their direction as fast as his engines would drive him.
Suddenly Yvette uttered an exclamation of alarm.
“Dick,” she said, “our petrol is giving out. There is none left in the number four tank and five and six will only carry us about seventy miles.”
Evidently the bullets of their pursuers had pierced the tank which was now empty and the precious spirit had drained away unnoticed.
The situation was now serious indeed. Could they get to Jules in time? A wireless message bade him hasten.
“Ten miles more, Dick,” said Yvette at last, “and then I can make three miles and the glide as we come down. It’s lucky we are so high; we ought to do it.”
Then seven or eight miles away a column of vapour rose from the water ahead. Jules had fired a smoke bomb to guide them! Their petrol was almost gone. But as the engine flickered out and stopped Yvette, with a cry of joy, pointed to a tiny dot on the sea which they knew was Jules rushing to their help. A rocket shot up from the launch.
“He sees us!” said Dick, as Yvette set the Mohawk on a flat downward slant. Two minutes later they struck the water with a mighty splash just as the motor-launch tore up, flinging a cloud of spray into the air as she rushed to their rescue. They were safe and they had saved a throne! But the gallant Mohawk sank to the bottom of the Adriatic.