rising temper of the director could be thought an indication.

The big hose again drew water from the pool to the tank, whence, at a
sudden release, it would issue in billows. The big lights at last seemed
to be adjusted to the director's whim. The aeroplane propeller whirred
and the gale was found acceptable. The men at the rope tugged the boat
into grave danger. The moon lighted the mist that overhung the scene.

Then at last Merton started, peering eagerly forward across the length
of the pool. At the far end, half illumined by the big lights, stood
the familiar figure of his wonder--woman, the slim little girl with the
wistful eyes. Plainly he could see her now as the mist lifted. She was
chatting with one of the pirates who had stepped ashore from the boat.
The wonderful golden hair shone resplendent under the glancing rays of
the arcs. A cloak was about her shoulders, but at a word of command from
the director she threw it off and stepped to the boat's deck. She was
dressed in a short skirt, her trim feet and ankles lightly shod and
silken clad. The sole maritime touch in her garb was a figured kerchief
at her throat similar to those worn by the piratical crew.

"All ready, Hortense--all ready Jose and Gaston, get your places."

Miss Baxter acknowledged the command with that characteristic little
wave of a hand that he recalled from so many of her pictures, a
half-humorous, half-mocking little defiance. She used it often when
escaping her pursuers, as if to say that she would see them in the next
installment.

The star and the two men were now in the cabin, hidden from view. Merton
Gill was no seaman, but it occurred to him that at least one of the crew
would be at the wheel in this emergency. Probably the director knew no
better. Indeed the boat, so far as could be discerned, had no wheel.
Apparently when a storm came up all hands went down into the cabin to
get away from it.

The storm did come up at this moment, with no one on deck. It struck
with the full force of a tropic hurricane. The boat rocked, the wind
blew, and billows swept the deck. At the height of the tempest Beulah
Baxter sprang from the cabin to the deck, clutching wildly at a
stanchion. Buffeted by the billows she groped a painful way along the
side, at risk of being swept off to her death.

She was followed by one of the crew who held a murderous knife in his
hand, then by the other sailor who also held a knife. They, too, were
swept by