Ready to clear for Diablo at last! Gregory's lieutenants had done their work well. The gear from the ship-chandlers had arrived on the morning train. Also the remittance from Farnsworth. Dickie Lang had outfitted the fishing-boats in record time. Crews of experienced men were selected and supplies taken aboard. One by one the launches were carefully examined by the girl and despatched singly on a course mapped out by herself, a course which would bring them to Northwest Harbor without skirting the shore of the island. The auxiliary supply boat, the last of the fleet to go, had cleared but an hour before. For the time being Dickie Lang was content to rest upon her oars.

Bronson was ready. In response to a night letter from Gregory he had arrived on time with the Richard, bringing with him a full equipment of heavy gear. Tuned to the minute, the speed-craft waited impatiently at the cannery float for the signal to be under way.

Jack McCoy was ready. Everything within the cannery was shipshape to handle a big run. Depleted supplies had been hastily ordered. Necessary additions to the floor force had been made and the house-manager was in possession of detailed instructions for the running of the plant during the owner's absence.

Even Hawkins was ready. The advertisements had been written and checked over before being despatched to The Times to "farm out" among the other city dailies. In addition to that, the newspaperman had arranged to communicate with his paper via the cannery wireless should he be fortunate enough to secure a big story.

Gregory himself was ready. The details of the embarkation had been covered to the minutest detail. A plan had been formulated in the early morning hours for the outwitting of Mascola at El Diablo, a plan to which Dickie Lang had given her hearty approbation before it was sent to Howard over the radio.

Gregory turned for a last word with McCoy before giving the order which would send the Richard to sea.

"We'll keep in close touch, Jack," he said. "We'll expect you to do the same. This is Friday. If we send in a lot of fish to-morrow it will mean a straight run over Sunday. Keep a man at the key day and night. And don't forget that we are low on cash. If you get any orders that look at all good, grab them until we can get 'out of the woods.' We're going up against a mighty stiff proposition. It's make or break, and the sooner we get down to cases with Mascola the better it will be."

He put out his hand and McCoy's fingers tightened over his. Then McCoy watched him go down the gangway and take his place beside Dickie Lang in the Richard.

"You don't mean to tell me that's Diablo?"

Hawkins wiped his dripping face and stared at the misty blot on the purpling horizon.

Gregory and Dickie Lang looked up from their scrutiny of the small clock on the Richard's dash and smiled:

"Two hours and ten minutes to here," Gregory announced. "We can make it easy in two hours and a half, and we've been bucking a head wind and sea all the way over. If the Fuor d'Italia can do this well, Mascola will certainly have to show me."

Bronson smiled but made no comment.

As the island loomed across their track, Dickie directed a change of course.

"Cut in close to that big cliff on the northeast corner and we'll work our way along close in to the shore."

Bronson complied. Then the girl turned to Gregory.

"Get my idea?" she asked.

"You want to see if Mascola has fallen for our scheme," Gregory replied.

"Exactly. We'll cruise by his fleet and lay to by the Pelican. Then we'll find out if he's spotted the Curlew yet. If he hasn't, the boys can get in in the dark and 'chum' the fish. By that time we won't care what Mascola does."

The passing of a few minutes brought them in sight of the alien fleet grouped closely together off Black Point.

"They've shifted," announced the girl. "Tom's message said they were off the Hell-Hole."

Gregory said nothing but as they drew nearer he exclaimed: "Look! They've got the Pelican sewed up tighter than a drum. Looks like Mascola hasn't tumbled on to the other boat yet."

"Can't tell."

Dickie searched the darkening water intently. Then she observed: "I don't see Mascola's boat anywhere. Maybe he's cruising the island."

Throttling to the speed of an ordinary fishing craft they approached the fleet and dodged skilfully among the boats in the direction of the Pelican.

Tom Howard had but little news. He had put to sea from Northwest Harbor according to orders. Had circled the island and appeared off the east coast at daybreak as if en route from the mainland. Had stumbled on to a small school of albacore off Black Point and started fishing. Mascola's fleet had moved down from Hell-Hole in the early morning. Had "fenced" him. The Italian's men had been drinking freely all day and had refused to give him sea-way to get out. Of Mascola himself he had seen but little. The Italian boss had been down in the morning but had paid little attention to his men. After boarding but one of his boats he had returned with the Fuor d'Italia in the direction of the Hell-Hole Isthmus. He had not been back since.

"Is the Curlew still off Northwest Harbor?" inquired Gregory.

"Don't know. Haven't tried to reach them. Didn't want to wise these fellows we had anybody else over here. 'Sparks' says they've got a rig round here somewhere and have been trying to hail somebody all day. We've been getting a few messages from the boys. Most of them are off the other side of the island now, waitin' for dark to pass the harbor."

Gregory and Dickie were elated to find the fleet so near. At the same time both looked worried at the mention of another wireless equipment in the immediate vicinity.

"I'll bet they're trying to reach that shore-set the boys spotted the other day," hazarded the girl. She looked at her watch and glanced toward the towering peaks which cast their shadows far out into the water. "Well, if they are, we can't stop them," she observed. "What do you say we start along the north shore with an eye out for fish and Mascola? Maybe he's already nosing around Northwest Harbor."

Gregory agreed to the girl's suggestion.

"Running slowly will bring us up with the Curlew about dark," he said. "Let's go."

Climbing again into the Richard, Bronson threw in the clutch and the speed-craft zigzagged her way through the fishing fleet and headed away from Black Point. At the same time one of the faster of the alien boats detached itself from the others and trailed along in their wake.

"Better slip that fellow," advised the girl. "We don't want him tagging. If we keep well in he won't be able to see us long."

Gregory gave Bronson the necessary orders, and the Richard bounded away from her pursuer and raced into the shadows of the cliff. When they arrived at the point near the Hell-Hole Isthmus, the speed-craft motor began to miss and Bronson guided the Richard in the lea of the promontory and threw out an anchor.

"Good place to fix that right now," he said. "You see everything's new and I've been feeding too much oil. The plugs are all gummed up. 'Twon't take but a minute to clean them."

While he worked over the motor Gregory's eyes roamed shoreward to the cliffs. It was quite dark now and only the sound of the lapping waves betokened the presence of the jagged rocks which projected above the surface of the water near the shore. It was almost here he remembered suddenly that the Sea Gull had been wrecked. As he looked out into the darkness, he felt Dickie's fingers tighten on his arm.

"Look!" she cried. "What's that behind us?"

Gregory turned about to see the black waters to the sternward were rippled with sparkling threads of silver-white. From out the darkness came a swiftly moving gray shadow. One glance astern caused Bronson to slash the anchor-rope which held the Richard. Then he started the auxiliary motor and threw the speed-craft forward with a jerk. The same instant a long gray hull brushed by them and disappeared into the gloom as silently as she had come. Bronson whirled the Richard about, gazing intently after the departing stranger.

"A miss is as good as a mile," he observed. "If it hadn't been for the dual motor we'd have been out of luck."

"I wouldn't say so," Hawkins snapped. "A miss of a mile wouldn't give a man heart-failure. Lord, I'm weak as a cat."

Kenneth Gregory leaned closer and spoke in a voice which only the boatman could hear. Bronson put about at his words and muffling down, followed silently after the gray boat.

"Cut out your lights."

Bronson threw the switch at Gregory's command.

"It's against the law," he muttered, "but I reckon it's safer with a bird like that."

Soon the strange craft was again dimly visible, appearing like a gray blot in the darkness ahead. Off the Hell-Hole she turned shoreward and was lost to view.

"Tell him to stop the motor for a moment," whispered Dickie Lang.

When Bronson complied, the silence for the space of a few minutes was unbroken. Then from the little cove came the muffled cough of a high-speed motor.

"All right. Head out."

The Richard sped on her way at Gregory's command. Then he asked: "What did that sound like to you, Bronson?"

The boatman answered promptly: "That was the bird you're looking for. I've heard the Fuor d'Italia's exhaust too many times to guess wrong."

Dickie Lang nodded sagely in the darkness, while Bronson volunteered:

"I think I know the one that nearly run us down too. Running dark's her long suit." For a moment he hesitated, then he added: "She looked a whole lot like the Gray Ghost."

"Interesting, if true," muttered Hawkins, sliding nearer to the operator. Then he asked aloud: "Who's the Gray Ghost?"

Bronson noted the suppressed eagerness of the man's tone. Then he remembered that Hawkins was a newspaperman. Reporters were a nosey class as a rule. Perhaps it would be as well to keep still. After all, what did he, Bronson, know about the Gray Ghost? What did anybody really know about her, for that matter?

"The Gray Ghost is a fishing-boat," he said quietly, "that was built by Al Stevenson. She's bigger and quieter than the average. She's supposed to be about as fast for her size as any of them. I heard the other day she was owned by a fellow by the name of——" He stopped abruptly. "I can't remember the man's name," he concluded.

Hawkins knew Bronson was lying. Straightway he decided to find out what he could about the ownership of the Gray Ghost. Of the vessel herself, he had some knowledge though he gave no intimation that he had ever heard the name before.

"Mascola must own the Gray Ghost himself, the way he's sticking around her," observed Dickie Lang. "He must have been waiting in there for her or he'd have been scouting around before this."

Gregory agreed.

"Tom said they were pretty well fished out down below," he contributed, "and Mascola hadn't given them a new location. He's evidently got something on his mind that's more important to him than fishing."

Bronson said nothing but smiled grimly in the darkness. Perhaps that wasn't such a wild guess, at that. But it was none of his business. His firm was building boats for the Italian, so why should he say anything?

The sky was dark overhead and a freshening breeze sprang up when they reached the tip of the island and headed shoreward. Rounding Devil's Point they came in full view of the glimmering lights of the fishing fleet.

"Looks like home," commented Dickie. "Wonder how long the boys have been there." She checked up the lights rapidly, then announced: "They're all there but one. Probably the supply-boat. She isn't due yet. That's pretty quick work I'd say."

Hailing the first of his fishing-boats, they learned that the voyage from the mainland had been without incident. The albacore were thick about the island. They were keeping the fish around with live bait. All of the fishermen predicted a record haul.

Proceeding to the Curlew, Bronson tied the Richard alongside and the party from the speed-launch climbed aboard. Then the girl conferred with Gregory and plans for the night were formulated. The fleet would lay at anchor with every motor in instant readiness to get the respective vessels under way at a given signal. The men would alternate on an anchor watch and keep the fish "chummed" up during the night. Those who were off duty would get their needed rest and make no unnecessary noise. No vessel was to move from her anchorage without permission from the Curlew. Fishing would begin at daybreak.

With preparations completed for the night, Gregory's party made themselves comfortable aboard the Curlew. A message was despatched to the Pelican instructing Howard to join the fleet shortly after midnight. And the cannery was notified of the safe arrival of the boats at the island.

After supper Hawkins clung tenaciously to Bronson and the two men retired to the bow and conversed in low tones. Gregory sat with Dickie Lang in the stern and for some time puffed at his pipe in silence. The yellow rays which issued from the fresneled glass light on the mast-head fell full upon the girl's figure and Gregory saw that her eyes were fixed on the dark outlines of the coast.

"What do you make of Mascola?"

Dickie shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "He has me guessing right now. I can't understand why he's been hanging round Hell-Hole all day and hasn't tumbled on to the Curlew. He seems to have forgotten his boats entirely."

"I have an idea he has," Gregory answered. "Sometimes I think that perhaps fishing is only a small part of Mascola's business. We both know he hasn't made much with his boats in the last few months, yet Bronson says he's having twenty new launches built at Port Angeles. That will run into a big bunch of money at present prices."

"You're not the only one who has ideas to-night," Dickie said softly. "Being around Diablo always makes me think—and wonder."

"What?" Gregory encouraged.

The girl moved closer to his side.

"I'm wondering about the same things our fathers wondered about," she said. As Gregory said nothing, she went on hurriedly: "Did you ever stop to think that if Mascola and that gray boat lay in at Hell-Hole that they are doing it with Bandrist's permission? That means that whatever they are doing there, Bandrist is in on it." She paused abruptly and her eyes rested full on Gregory's face. "I have an idea that old Rock is in on it, too," she said. "He and Bandrist are pretty thick evidently, and Rock always did stick up for Mascola. And all three of them are doing all they can against us."

"And you think it is something else than fishing?" Gregory prompted.

"Yes, I'm sure of it. I think our fathers had the same idea. I believe they came over here alone that night to find out."

"Do you think——" Gregory began.

But the girl answered his unfinished question.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I think they found out. That is why they never got out alive."

"But they were wrecked and drowned."

Dickie shook her head slowly. "I have never thought so," she answered in a half-whisper. "Listen," she went on, "boats like the Sea Gull don't wreck themselves and a better man with a launch than my dad never lived. Men like him don't drown easily. He was a regular fish in the water and had got out of many a smash-up before."

"But they were drowned. The coroner himself told me——"

"You're right," she interrupted. "Any man can be drowned. How long do you suppose you and Tom Howard would have lasted on the island if you had insisted on staying the night we were over here?"

Gregory considered her words carefully. In the light of past events, they held some truth. But if Bill Lang and his father had met with foul play, why were the bodies ever recovered? Why would it not have been simpler to have made way with them entirely? He put the question and Dickie answered promptly:

"That would have caused a search of the island. Just what they do not want, if they are up to anything crooked over here. With the bodies recovered and the boat smashed, it had all the appearance of a natural wreck."

"Why have you never said anything like this before?"

Dickie hesitated. Then she answered simply. "Because I never felt as if I knew you well enough. I have no proof. It's only a girl's idea, and one I'm afraid you would have taken but little stock in."

"You're mistaken," Gregory replied. "I would have. And perhaps by now we could have had the proof."

"No. We've done just right. If we had pretended we suspected anything they would have gone to cover. There's only one way to get to the bottom of this thing and that is to beat Mascola at his own game. Make him think that fish are the only thing in the world we care for around Diablo. And while we're fishing over here, keep our eyes open and learn what we can."

Before Gregory could reply the silence of the night was broken by the sharp exhaust of a high-speed motor. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a flash of red pierce the darkness and heard the girl's voice close to his ear.

"I guess we're due to find out something now. Here comes Mascola."

Together they watched the red light brighten. Then came a flash of green as the oncoming launch swerved and sped toward them. In a few moments Mascola had located the flag-ship and the Fuor d'Italia lay snorting angrily by the Richard's side.

"I want to see the boss," demanded the Italian.

Gregory leaned over the rail and focused his flash-light on Mascola.

"What do you want?" he called.

Mascola blinked under the bright rays. Seated beside him was another man who leaned closer into the shadow of the fishing-boat.

"I want you to move," Mascola said thickly. "My men were here first. Plenty of fish at San Anselmo. Many as here. If you go to the other island there will be no trouble."

"And if we stay?"

Mascola's passenger looked up quickly at Gregory's words, and the light fell full upon his face.

It was Bandrist.

"I hope you will not decide to stay," he said slowly. "As I have told you before, I'm not seeking trouble on this island. Mascola's men have been drinking too much and are ugly. A supply-boat arrived to-day from the mainland with too much liquor. I am having some difficulty with my own men. I hope you will help us avoid trouble."

Gregory answered them at once.

"If there is any trouble, it will be of your making. The ocean is free to all. We are interfering with no one's rights. We're here. The fish are here. And here we're going to stay."

"I'll show you, you——"

Bandrist checked the Italian's angry outburst by placing a hand firmly upon his arm.

"I'm sorry," he began. But Mascola's open muffler drowned his words and the Fuor d'Italia leaped away into the darkness.

"Mascola's drunk," commented Dickie, looking after them. "Otherwise, he would never have talked like that. It's a wonder Bandrist ever mixed up with him." She turned about and confronted Gregory. Behind him were Hawkins, Bronson and the crew of the Curlew. "This means we've got to move," she exclaimed. "We'd better round up the bunch, give them their positions and start fishing."

Gregory and the girl climbed into the Richard, calling to Bronson to follow.

"Tell 'Sparks' to send word to Howard to beat it out with the Pelican right away," Gregory instructed Hawkins. Then he exclaimed to Dickie as she took her seat beside him: "It looks like Mascola was spoiling for a fight. And if he is I'll say he's due for the surprise of his life."