occasionally the raised voice of one of the
men about the fire, broke the stillness.

Mercer stared searchingly into the girl's eyes as she stood there quietly
at his side. She met his gaze steadily.

"You're a wonderful little girl," he whispered to her, and then abruptly
added: "Come on. Don't make any splash if you can help it. And remember,
if anything goes wrong, never mind me. Fly away--if you can."

They waded slowly into the water. The current carried them rapidly along.
Side by side, with slow, careful strokes, they swam, keeping close to
shore. The river was shallow--hardly over their heads. The water was cold
and, Mercer thought, curiously buoyant.

It seemed hardly more than a moment before the shadowy black figure of
outlines of the boat loomed ahead. They could make out the figure of its
single occupant, sitting with his arm on the gunwale. They swam hardly at
all now, letting the current carry them forward. As silent as two drifting
logs they dropped down upon the boat and in another moment were clinging
to a bit of rope that chanced to be hanging over its stern.

The bow of the boat was nosed against the bank; it lay diagonally
downstream, with its stern some twenty feet from shore. Its occupant was
sitting amidships, facing the bow. Mercer drew himself up until his eyes
were above the stern of the boat and saw him plainly. He was slouching
down as though dozing. His elbow was crooked, carelessly over the gunwale.

Mercer's heart gave an exultant leap as he saw a little cylinder in the
man's hand. There was a little projection on the boat at the water line,
and, working along this with his hands, Mercer edged slowly toward the
man. He knew he could not be heard, for the murmur of the water slipping
past the sides of the boat drowned the slight noise he made.

He edged his way along, with not much more than his face out of water,
until he was directly beneath the motionless form in the boat.

Mercer's heart was beating so it seemed to smother him. Slowly he pulled
himself up until the fingers of his left hand gripped the gunwale hardly
more than a foot or two behind the man's back. His other hand reached
forward. He must have made a slight noise, for the man sat suddenly
upright, listening.

Mercer's right hand shot out. His fingers closed over the little cylinder
and the hand holding it. He bent it inward, twisting the man's wrist. His
thumb fumbled for the little button Anina had described. Ther