as a flash, huddled inside, she reached out and drew the heap of what proved to be sailcloth nearer to her to cover the opening—and lay still.
A few seconds passed; then she heard them at the edge of the wharf, and heard Danglar's voice:
"Watch where she comes up! She can't get away!"
A queer, wan smile twisted Rhoda Gray's lips. The casting had served her well; the splash had been loud enough! She listened, straining her ears to catch every sound from above. It was miserably small this hiding place into which she had crawled, scarcely large enough to hold her—she was beginning to be painfully cramped and uncomfortable already.
Another voice, that she recognized as Pinkie Bonn's now, reached her:
"It's damned hard to spot anything out there; the water's blacker'n hell."
Came a savage and impatient oath from Danglar.
"She's got to come up, ain't she—or drown!" he rasped. "Maybe she's swum under the wharf, or maybe she's swum under water far enough out so's we can't see her from here. Anyway, jump into that boat there, and we'll paddle around till we get her."
Rhoda Gray held her breath. The boat rocked violently as, one after another, the men jumped into it. Her right hand was doubled under her, it was hard to reach her pocket and her automatic. She moved a little; they were cursing, splashing with their oars, making too much noise to hear any slight rustle that she might make.
A minute, two, went by. She had her automatic now, and she lay there, grim-lipped, waiting. Even if they found her now, she had her own way out; and by now, beyond any question, the Adventurer and the Sparrow would have reached the street, and, even if they had to
