Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer's hand.
This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down came
the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the atmosphere, as a
painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from his canvas. Long tails
of yellow vapor, twining--twining--but always coiling downward, floated
like snakes about them; and the oily waters of the Thames became
pock-marked in the growing light.
Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry--a very rakish-looking
motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of them. He
quivered with excitement.
"Do you know the boat?" cried Rogers, addressing his crew in general.
"No, sir," reported his second-in-command; "she's a stranger to me. They
must have kept her hidden somewhere." He turned and looked back into the
group of faces, all directed toward the strange craft. "Do any of you
know her?" he demanded.
A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.
"But she can shift," said one of the men. "They must have been going
slow through the fog; she's creeping up to ten or twelve knots now, I
should reckon."
"Your reckoning's a trifle out!" snapped Rogers, irritably, from the
stern; "but she's certainly showing us her heels.
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