THE town lot speculator took his feet down from the desk and George, flinging his cigarette away, got up, took a few paces, and altered his position by straddling his chair, leaning his arms on the back. It was a favourite trick of old Harley du Cane. When big things were on, and if there was a crisis and he was seated and talking to you, ten to one he’d get up, take a few paces, and then sit down again straddling his chair as if he were riding a horse.

“Well, that’s settled,” said George. “I’m with you. What’s your plan? You said you knew where this man is and could put your finger on him.”

“I guess I was talking through my hat,” said Hank. “It’s a way I have, times.”

“Then how the devil are you going to find him?”

“It’s a way I have, times,” said Hank, not seeming to hear the other, “but I’m never far wrong when I’m talking that way. I don’t know where the chap is any more than I know where Solomon’s aunt’s buried, but I’ve a feeling that his haunt’s round about the islands down Santa Catalina way. I know all the coast running from Monterey right to Cape St. Lucas. I had a tenth share in a shark boat once, and I’ve nosed into all the cricks and corners right to the end of Lower California, and I’ve got a feeling that the Dutchman’s using the Channel Islands and that we’ll fetch him somewhere about there, if we’re clever.”

“You’re sure it’s Amsterdam Joe we’re after?”

“No, I’m not.”

“But great Scott, you said you were sure.”

“I was talking,” said Hank, “the words were hit out of me by something outside my head, but I’m never far wrong when I’m taken like that. I’d bet a thousand to a nickel it’s him, but that’s not being sure. You see, it’s not Dutch Pete, for I saw him shot with my own eyes, but the affair was hushed up, and they gave his name different in the papers. He was hand and fist with Joe and that’s what put the wrong idea about. Joe went south more than nine months ago, superintending a fishery or something down there, and he hasn’t come back, and he’s just the chap to fill this bill—and there you are.”

“Well, it doesn’t much matter,” said George, “as long as a man’s there and will put up a fight and we have the fun of catching him. Now then, Hank F., what are your plans? Spit them out.”

“Well,” said Hank, “my plans are simple enough. I’m going to drop down to the Islands and do some fishing and water-lily around picking up information where I can. There’s all sorts of boats down south of the Islands, doing shark fishing and going after the sulphur-bottom whales; and at Avalon and San Clemente and places there’s lots of fellows I can pick up information from. A police boat or a destroyer would find nothing but shut heads, but a man that knows how to go about it can tap the wires. Why, you wouldn’t believe how news goes about along the coast, and the long-shoremen are pirates by instinct. There’s not one of them isn’t backing old man Vanderdecken. Pirates by instinct, only they haven’t the pluck of their opinions.

“Well, when I’ve got this bird’s fishing waters, I’m going to lay in them and cruise round in them and whistle ‘Chase me Charlie’ till he pounces, or maybe I’ll be able to put my finger on the creek or bay or wherever it is he makes his port of call, and pounce myself—no knowing.”

“I see,” said George.

“I’m blessed if I do,” said Hank. “It’s mighty problematical, but I’ve got the feeling in my toes that I’m going to collar him.”

“Well,” said George, “we’ve got so far. Now about the boat.”

“What boat?”

“Well, you don’t propose to swim after the Dutchman, do you?”

“Well,” said Hank, “if one cog goes wrong in this business, we may both be swimming after him, begging to be took aboard and him using us for target practice—but I’m not going in a boat.”

“Then what the devil are you going in?”

“A yacht. Y. A. C. H. T. Sixty ton schooner, auxiliary engine, white-painted boat, turning a bit cream with wear, cabin upholstered in red plush, bird’s-eye maple panels let in with pictures of flowers—everything up-to-date, seemingly. She jumped into my head at the Club as I was talking about old Vanderdecken, that’s how things come to me. No sooner had I left the ’phone and began talking to you fellows than the whole of this expedition and how to do it hit me on the head like an orange.”

“Well, let’s get back to business. You have your eye on a yacht, but, from your specification, fifty thousand dollars is more like what you’ll want than five. What’s the name of this yacht?”

“She’s not exactly a yacht,” said Hank.

“Then what is she?”

“She’s more in the nature of an optical delusion.”

George had patience. He had also plenty of time and could afford to let Hank play about. It was the first time he had come really in touch with the town lot speculator’s mentality, and it interested him. His own position began to interest him, too. He had pledged himself to this expedition and he would no more draw out than old Harley du Cane would have drawn out of one of his frontal attacks on Jay Gould, however dangerous.

“Well, you are going to chase after this Dutchman in an optical delusion,” said he. “I’m listening—go on, spit out your meaning.”

Hank rose to his feet and took his hat.

“Come on,” said he, “and I’ll show you it.”