Fifteen minutes passed in eloquent silence. The lightning and the thunder continued.
"Try it again," Minot suggested. Again they peeped. And still no red light on the Lileth.
And even as they looked, out of the black heavens swept a sheet of stinging rain. It lashed down on that frail tossing boat with cruel force; it obscured the Lileth, the island, everything but the fact of its own damp existence. In two seconds the men unprotected in that tiny launch were pitiful dripping figures, and the glory of Mr. Paddock's evening clothes departed never to return.
"A fortune-teller in Albuquerque," said poor old George, "told me I was to die of pneumonia. It'll be murder, gentlemen—plain murder."
"It's suicide, too, isn't it?" snarled Paddock. "That ought to satisfy you."
"I'm sorry," said Minot through chattering teeth.
No answer. The downfall continued.
"The rain is raining everywhere," quoted Paddock gloomily. "It falls on the umbrellas here,
