eastern coast of Cuba that McKinnon detected any signs of unusual interest in the gun runner's actions. He caught sight of him at the rail, shadowed by one of the life-boats, scanning the shore-line through his binoculars. He could see him there for an hour or more, studying the long, grayish-yellow littoral land-shelf and the lonely and misty blue hills beyond it. He stood there, expectantly, as though in search for some signal which was not to be found. Then he fell to walking the deck, impatiently, between the engine-room skylights and the life boats. McKinnon, as he watched him striding back and forth, with a touch of exasperation out of keeping with his customarily ponderous movements, could see that a little of the colour had gone from his pendulous cheeks, and that his deep-set eyes were more haggard and puffy than usual.
But nothing came to the quiet and sun-steeped ship to relieve McKinnon's accruing sense of anxiety. His coherer wooed no response from the silence about him; his aerials intercepted no answering message. More than once he felt tempted to confront his impassive and quiescent opponent, if for nothing more than to end the strain, to knock the chip off his shoulder and bring things to an issue.
But Ganley gave him no opening. And again
