"You have seen nothing of the speed-boat from Legonia?"

Mascola shook his head in answer to the question and reached for the bottle which stood on the table in Bandrist's ranch-house.

Bandrist jerked it away. "Cut that out," he said sternly. "You've had enough. To-night you have work to do. You must keep sober."

Mascola scowled, glaring angrily at the islander as he went on:

"Mr. Gregory left Legonia at ten-thirty with his speed-boat. There were five in the launch. Four men and Miss Lang."

Mascola drew in his breath sharply.

"That damned Lang girl," he began. "She is a——"

Bandrist slid from his chair with a quick movement which carried him wriggling about the table.

"Keep your tongue still," he gritted as he towered over the Italian. "You talk too much."

Mascola started from his chair, but there was a look in Bandrist's eyes which made him drop back. A sneering smile played about the Italian's lips but he said nothing. If Bandrist was a fool about a woman, what was that to him? He could not afford to quarrel with the islander. Not yet.

"How did Peters know they were coming here?" he asked after a moment.

"He didn't," Bandrist answered shortly. "But it is only natural that they should come here. Their boats have been fishing along the north shore of the island. Your men failed to drive them off."

Mascola flushed.

"My men did drive them off," he contradicted hotly. "Only a few minutes ago they returned with other boats. I will drive those off too."

Bandrist smiled insultingly.

"Why don't you do it?" he challenged. "To-night is a time I must have something more than talk. I want you to go down and join your fleet at once, keep a close watch and if the speed-boat does not arrive within a half-hour, let me know immediately."

Mascola made no move to obey.

"Gonzolez is laying in at the goose-neck," he said. "I sent Rossi round to join him. The Fuor d'Italia lies in the little cove beyond."

Bandrist's blue eyes flashed. "I can tend to that," he exclaimed. "You do what you're told and quit meddling with my business."

"It's my business too," Mascola retorted doggedly. "Gonzolez is becoming angry at the delay. He will wait no longer."

Bandrist walked slowly to the window and stared out into the fog. When he faced about an automatic shone dully in his hand.

"Do as I tell you," he ordered quietly. "And do it quick."

Mascola's face purpled. Still he made no move to do Bandrist's bidding. "Don't forget," he said thickly, "that there are others who know besides you and me. If anything happens to me at Diablo there is one who will tell what he knows. I have seen to that."

Bandrist's fingers tightened on the revolver. Then he slowly replaced it in his pocket. The Italian might only be bluffing, but it was best to take no unnecessary chances. Mastering his anger at Mascola's insubordination, Bandrist walked again to the table.

"Perhaps you are right," he said pleasantly. "Let us go on to the goose-neck."

When Gregory returned to the Richard with Slade and Hawkins he found Dickie Lang huddled close beside the crumpled figure of his captive. The girl was sobbing softly as she listened to the whispered words of the little Mexican.

Feeling his way to her side, he placed an arm about her, and drawing her away from the other man, waited for her to speak. Then she explained in a voice shaken by tears.

"It's Mexican Joe. He was with our fathers on the Gull. No one knew it at Legonia. He went out with them at midnight and reached Diablo a little before daybreak. They left him on the launch while they went ashore. He saw them murdered on the beach. The launch was run down a few minutes later. Joe was thrown overboard. He struck his head on the rocks. When he came to, he heard them searching for him but he hid in the sea-grass and escaped to the other side of the island. He's been living there ever since in a cave in the hills. It was he who stole the gun and provisions from the Petrel."

Gregory held the girl close as she told the Mexican's story. For an instant tears dimmed his eyes, then melted away before the white-hot heat of the blood-lust which surged into his heart. His father had been murdered at El Diablo. By whom? He put the question.

The girl's fingers tightened on his arm and she placed her lips close to his ear.

"A number of men overpowered them on the beach and drowned them. Mascola was with them."

Gregory's jaws locked and the muscles of his body grew tense. Mascola had murdered his father and Bill Lang. Releasing the girl, he hurried over to the three men who were talking to the Mexican and grasped Hawkins by the arm.

"What are we waiting for?" he cried. "While you're talking the man may get away."

"Just a minute, Cap," Hawkins remonstrated. "Things are coming along fine. Billings and Slade are learning a lot from the Mex. As soon as they get him filled up with those sandwiches he's going to show us the wireless tower and the cove where the Gray Ghost put in to-night. He says there's a cave close by where he saw——"

Gregory shook off his restraining arm.

"What is all that to me?" he flashed. "Don't you know that Mascola murdered my father? Let the men go where they will. I'm going after Mascola."

Hawkins started at Gregory's words.

"I didn't know, Cap," he muttered blankly. For a brief instant he strove to express his sympathy for his friend. Then he gave it up. "Brace up, old man," he said at last. "Take a grip on yourself. You can't do anything over here alone. Before morning we'll have the whole gang rounded up and Mascola with them. I guess the boys are ready to go now."

Gregory shivered in his wet clothes and Hawkins pressed his slicker upon him. While the men took their places in the skiff Gregory found Dickie Lang. The girl came into his outstretched arms and clung close to him in the darkness.

"Take me with you," she pleaded. "Don't leave me here. I can't stand it."

He released her gently and shook his head.

"No, dearest," he said softly. "If you were with us I might be afraid. And I can't afford to be afraid to-night. Stay close and keep under cover. If the fog lifts, pull the anchor and drift in to the shadow of the rocks."

"Why don't you tell me what you are going to do?" the girl asked. "You know that——"

Gregory drew her closer.

"I'm going to get Mascola," he answered in a whisper. Then his voice changed suddenly. "And if I don't come back," he went on. "You'll know now that I love you."

For an instant his lips met hers. Then he climbed over the coaming and joined the men in the dory. Dickie listened to the soft creak of the oar-locks until the sound was no longer audible.

Mascola had killed her father and Richard Gregory. His son had gone to bring the Italian to justice. But what could five men do on the island against the hordes of Bandrist and Mascola? Who were the mysterious strangers who had accompanied them from Legonia? The questions crowded close upon one another as they raced through her brain. Then her mind surrendered to a single thought,—a thought which warmed her heart and took possession of her being.

"You'll know now that I love you."

She whispered the words softly through lips which were still warm with the memory of Gregory's kiss. Hope surged into her heart. God was good. Breathing a prayer for the safety of the man she loved, she caught up her rifle and sat down to wait.

The men from the launch landed silently on the beach and hid the skiff among the rocks. Then they followed the Mexican up the trail. Crawling through the brush, they halted at length at their guide's direction.

"From the top of the hill," he whispered, "the devil speaks."

Billings caught the Mexican by the arm.

"Come," he said. "Lead the way and the devil will speak no longer."

When the sheep-herder's shack loomed across their path, Slade commanded a halt. Then he gave orders to surround the building. As the men drew near the cabin the door opened suddenly and a man stepped out. Before he could close the door, Slade and Hawkins were upon him. Gregory and Billings darted for the open doorway as the light disappeared from within. From the fog-shrouded cabin came the sound of muffled blows, the quick breathing of men, the rasp of feet upon the creaking floor. A choking cry died away into silence. Silence broken after a moment by a sharp click. Then another. Slade relighted the lamp and turned to examine the two white-faced men who lay handcuffed on the floor.

"Look like 'snowbirds,'" he said. "The two of them haven't the strength of one healthy cat."

Passing the men over to Billings with instructions to search them, he walked to the radio switch-board and examined it carefully.

"They've got a regular set just the same," he said half-admiringly. "They could reach Encinitas with this one all right."

Seating himself on a stool by the board he placed his hand on the key.

"I'm going to try to get the Bennington," he said.

Billings nodded. "She ought to be close along shore by now," he answered. "If they left when they said they would."

While the search went on the radio spluttered spasmodically. Finding nothing of value on the persons of his captives, Billings bared the arms of the two men and scrutinized the flesh intently in the yellow lamplight.

"Snowbirds," he announced. "One of them's punctured up one side and down the other. Other's not so bad. Good business I'd say for them to get hold of a couple of fellows like these. They're about the only ones they could get to stick in a God-forsaken hole like this and keep their mouths shut."

He rose as he spoke and began to move slowly about the room.

"Tell the Mexican to keep a good lookout outside," he instructed Hawkins. "Then you and your friend can help me go through the shack."

Gregory assisted mechanically in the search but with little interest. The sooner they were through the sooner they would go down to the cove where the Gray Ghost lay at anchor. Then he would find Mascola. A muttered exclamation from Hawkins caused him to look up quickly.

The newspaperman was handing Billings a cigar-shaped capsule half filled with a coarse white powder.

"What's this, Jack?" he asked. "Looks like sugar. Found it in the grub-locker."

Billings poured the contents of the capsule into the palm of his hand. For a moment he scrutinized it intently. "That's the stuff we're looking for," he said quietly. "Though I never saw it in a package like that before."

Slade held up a hand for silence and pulled his head-set closer about his ears. For a moment his attention was held by the instrument. Then his hand again sought the key. When the sputtering of the radio had died away he announced:

"Got the Bennington. She's about a mile off the goose-neck. They're going to land in the next cove. The Gray Ghost's at anchor now off the isthmus cove. Mascola's speed-boat passed them in the fog about an hour ago. He's lying in somewhere farther down."

He rose as he spoke and began to wreck the radio set.

"Tie those fellows up good, Jack," he instructed Billings. "We don't want to be bothered with them down below. We've got to be on our way. The boys will be there by the time we get down the hill. What's that you've got there?"

Billings extended the capsule and Slade examined it curiously.

"Queer package," he said. "But it's the straight dope."

Hawkins' eyes shone with excitement as he crowded closer to Slade. "What is it, Tom?" he asked.

"Heroin," answered Slade quickly. "A refined product of opium. Never saw it put up like this before though. When we hit the beach maybe we'll learn the idea."

Beckoning Gregory to his side, Slade took from his pocket a deputy shield of the United States Customs and pinned it on the young man's vest.

"For your own protection," he explained. Then he added: "You must act entirely under my orders from now on, Mr. Gregory. Do only what I tell you. Nothing more. You have been in the service of the government before. You know what it means."

A few moments later the four men followed the Mexican down the trail leading to the goose-neck.

Under orders. Do only what I tell you. Nothing more. The words echoed in Gregory's mind. Slade did not understand. Mascola was to the revenue man only one of many. A man to be arrested and tried. Perhaps acquitted on a mere technicality of law or a perjured alibi. Slade did not know the Italian. Had Dickie Lang not said that Mascola laughed at the courts? Gregory's jaw set tighter as he descended the trail. To-night, orders or no orders, he would bring Mascola to justice by the law of the sea.