"Tell the mechanic to be ready to start within five minutes," the master rogue ordered.
The servant hurried away, and the Black Star took off his robe and put on the heavy ulster once more. Presently he hurried from the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
In the woods, six men left the hidden telephone and hurried along a narrow, winding path through the darkness, going toward the bank of the river.
They did not speak as they hurried forward, single file, like Indians following a trail. They reached the shore, and in a little cove came upon a motor boat hidden beneath overhanging willows. The six got into the boat.
They moved the craft out into the stream and pointed its bow toward the city. The six were dressed as fishermen, in uncouth clothing, stubbles of beard upon their faces, their sleeves rolled up. In the launch was fishing gear. There was nothing in the appearance of the craft to create suspicion, but a mechanic, had he looked at the engine, would have marveled that common fishermen could possess such a perfect piece of machinery.
The regulation lights were burning. The launch made ordinary speed down the stream. Two of the men were singing raucously. To all appearances here were six fishermen going to the city to carouse at some cheap resort on the waterfront.
At the lower end of town, the launch turned toward the shore. At a small dock she was moored. But only five of the men left the boat—one remained curled up in the stern, hidden by a mass of canvas and fishing gear.
The five entered a cheap resort and drank, and
