cident of uncommon character, even for New York, wherein (we're told) anything may happen, and most things do.
He saw a young man, hatless, coatless, almost shirtless, tear down to the end of one of the Jersey wharves, his heels snapped at by a ravening rabble, which he was so desperately anxious to escape that he dived headforemost into the greasy, tide-twisted river.
He took the water neatly, came up ininjured and clear-headed, and without an instant's hesitation struck away toward the middle of the Hudson. But he was not to make his getaway so easily. In a moment it was seen that he was being rapidly overtaken by a couple of harbour policemen in a dory.
During the breathless suspense of that chase the ferry-boat drew stolidly farther and still farther away from the scene. Barcus could not tell whether, as it seemed, the police-laden dory was really overhauling the swimmer, or whether the illusion of perspective deceived him. At all events, it seemed a frightfully near thing when the interruption befell which alone could have saved the man whom Barcus believed to be none other than Alan Law.
Out of the very sky dropped a hydroplane, cutting the water with a long graceful curve that brought it, almost at a standstill, directly to the head of the
