h to overbalance the buoyancy of the craft the
"Pollard" was bound to take a sudden lurch and go below.

Still fighting uselessly though frantically at the bonds that held him
helpless in this terrible crisis, Jack also kept up his yells.

The watchman did not hear. He was not near enough. Josh Owen, having
gained the shore and hauled the rowboat up, fled a short distance, then
crouched in hiding, waiting to see the effects of his terrible deed.

Only one other person was in the yard. Grace Desmond, unknown to her
employer, had come to the office in the evening, bent on posting up a
set of books that were in her care.

She had finished her work, and was stepping out into the yard, adjusting
her hat, when she heard one of those muffled appeals for help.

At the first sound she was not even sure of the word, but something in
the faintly-heard accent claimed her attention. She stopped short,
listening intently.

"Help! Aboard the submarine!"

This time, though the appeal seemed to come from a great distance, she
distinguished the words.

"Something wrong with the diving boat, and someone aboard!" she thought,
with a tugging throb at the heart. Turning, she sped down to the
water's edge.

"Help! help! The boat is sinking, and I'm helpless aboard."

She could see the bow slanting forward in the water, and realized that
all was wrong with the torpedo boat, and with some hapless human being
aboard. In that instant Grace Desmond's courage rang true.

Espying the rowboat, she bounded into it, snatching up an oar and
pushing off. At home on the water and skilled with oars, she pulled
a strong, rapid stroke until she lay alongside the "Pollard."

"Keep cool. Help is coming!" called the girl, as she ran alongside.
She caught at the lower portion of the deck rail and drew herself up.
It was but an instant later when she went gliding down the spiral
stairway.

Then, all in a flash, she caught sight of Jack Benson, lashed to the
stanchion. She comprehended, also, that whoever had tied the boy in
this fashion must have thrown the sea-valves partly open. That floor
was fast becoming an unsteady platform.

"You turn on the compressed air with a wrench, don't you?" she demanded,
swiftly.

"Yes," nodded the submarine boy. Then added, instantly:

"But you're a woman. These risks are not for you. Rush up through the
manhole and escape. There may be time."

"Where's the wrench? Tell me quickly," commande