er than yours for one," Bandrist disputed
quietly. "The new revenue cutters are faster for others. Why are you a
fool?"

A hot argument began on the instant between the two men. An argument
which ended by Bandrist's knocking Mascola to the cockpit.

Mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. Bandrist was
not rowing he noticed. Without doubt he had him covered with his
revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're
the boss. It's up to you."

As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the
islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave
the order to start the motor.

The _Fuor d'Italia_ leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's
flaming face. Settling quietly into his seat he turned his attention to
the wheel.

He could afford to wait, but only a little longer.

* * * * *

Dickie Lang grasped her rifle tighter and leaned over the rail as she
heard the soft dip of oars. Then her hold on the gun relaxed. Perhaps it
was Gregory returning to the launch.

A glance into the gloom to starboard caused her to drop silently into
the cockpit. Resting the rifle on the coaming she covered the
approaching boat and waited in silence. To her ears came the low murmur
of men's voices. Then the oncoming craft veered sharply and faded from
view. For some time the girl crouched upon the floor of the launch. At
length the silence of the night was broken by the far-off pulsing of a
high-speed motor.

She jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. Even at the
distance she could not be deceived. There was only one other craft about
with an exhaust like that.

Mascola was fleeing from Diablo in the _Fuor d'Italia_.

She sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. Then she
stopped suddenly. The man she loved was still on the island. Perhaps he
had been wounded. Maybe killed. And in the meantime, Mascola was
escaping. For an instant love and hate fought for possession of the
heart of Dickie Lang. Then the chain slipped through her fingers and the
anchor dropped again to the bottom. Silently she returned to the wheel
and sat down to wait. It was the hardest part of all to play. And it
always fell to a woman.

* * * * *

When Gregory reached the end of the tunnel he could hear the shouts of
men and the rapid discharge of firearms from around the point