blotted out the scene.

Joe staggered to his feet, grasping the wire-stays for support. Then he stiffened and stood listening. The muffled purr of a high-powered motor disturbed the silence. From out the gloom to starboard he saw the bow of a big motor-boat cut the fog. The Mexican shrieked a warning and tightened his clutch on the stays.

The strange craft veered, the sharp bow swung over. With wide-open engines, she struck the Sea Gull amidships, full on the beam. Hurled to the deck by the impact the Mexican heard the snapping and grinding of timbers. He was conscious of falling and the cool rush of waters about his head. Then he remembered no more.

Wrapped in a clinging mantle of filmy fog, rock-bound, grim and mysterious, the Island of El Diablo frowned at the sea from behind the veil of silence. Brave men had sought to fathom her secret but she had guarded it well.

CHAPTER II

JETSAM OF THE SEA

John Blair was worried. Every line of his face, every movement of his nervous body showed it. He turned quickly to the bare-footed fisherman who blocked the doorway.

"You combed the beach, you say? How far?"

"San Lucas to Port Angeles."

"No signs of wreckage; nothing?"

The fisherman shook his head.

Blair was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "How far out to sea did you go?"

"About three miles, 'Dog-face' Jones's workin' out San Anselmo way. Big Jack left last night for Diablo."

Blair started. "Diablo," he repeated. "They surely wouldn't have gone out there."

Before the fisherman could reply there came an interruption. The door opened quickly and a young man strode into the room.

"Mr. Gregory? Is he in?"

Blair looked up quickly at the sound of the voice and ran his eyes over the clean-cut figure in the serge uniform. The impression, hastily formed, of having

met the man before, was strengthened by the roving black eyes which were expectantly traveling about the room.

"This is the Legonia Fish Cannery, isn't it?"

Blair nodded. "Yes," he said. "But Mr. Gregory is not here at present."

"When will he be in?"

The words came eagerly with the brusk assurance of an immediate answer. The crisp insistence had a decidedly familiar sound. Blair regarded the clean-cut face of the young officer intently as he answered:

"I don't know. Will you call again or leave your name?"

"I am Mr. Gregory's son."

Blair came to meet him with outstretched hands.

"I might have known it," he said. "I am Mr. Blair, your father's manager. I'm glad to meet you. Your father did not expect you so soon, did he?"

The young man shook his head and smiled.

"No," he answered. "Dad thinks I'm still on the other side. I wanted to surprise him. I wrote a letter saying I would be home as soon as possible. I mailed the letter on the ship which brought me over." A boyish look crept into his eyes. "Don't let on when dad comes back that you've seen me, will you, Mr. Blair? I have to go back to camp to-night and arrange about my discharge. It may be a week before I can be back."

The black eyes grew suddenly wistful.

"Say, Mr. Blair, don't you think there's a chance of my seeing dad before I leave? I have until five o'clock to get my train."

Blair was unable to meet the steady gaze of his employer's son. Should he tell the boy of his father's strange absence? Voice his own fears and suspicions for the safety of Gregory, Sr.? By the time the young man returned the mystery might be solved. At least they would know something.

"What is wrong, Mr. Blair?"

The question was volleyed with quiet insistence. It demanded an answer. The boy would not be put off. He was his father's son. Blair sought to put the matter in as favorable a light as possible under the circumstances. In a few words he told of the disappearance of Richard Gregory.

Kenneth Gregory listened quietly, at times interrupting with rapid-fire questions.

"When was he last seen?"

"Three days ago."

"You knew nothing of his plans?"

"Nothing definite," Blair evaded. "He might have gone out with the fishermen scouting for albacore. One of Lang's boats turned up missing the next morning. Lang himself is missing, too."

"Who is Lang?"

"Your father's fishing captain. He recently bought him a number of new boats. They might have gone to try one of them out."

"Nothing has been heard of them since?"

"Not yet. You see it has been very foggy lately all along the coast. That has handicapped our search."

"Where can I get a boat?"

Blair shook his head. Then he came closer and put his hand on Kenneth Gregory's arm.

"All of the Lang boats are out now, Captain. Everything is being done, I can assure you. It would be no use."

"Are there no other boats here than Lang's?"

"Only the alien fleet."

The man in uniform whirled about decisively.

"Then I'll get one of them. Will you show me where they are?"

"It would be no use. They wouldn't go. You see——"

"Let's try."

With some reluctance Blair consented.

"We haven't been getting along any too well with Mascola's outfit lately," he explained as they walked along. "I'll stop at Lang's wharf first. Maybe some of the boats are back."

Turning on to a small wharf they walked in silence over the loose boards down the lane of ill-smelling fish-boxes. At the end of the dock a narrow gangway led downward to a small float which rocked lazily in the capping swells thrown up by a passing fishing-boat. Close by, another wharf jutted out into the bay. Upon it were a number of swarthy fishermen, piling nets. Blair stopped abruptly at the head of the gang

way, his eyes searching the water. The fishing-boat was swinging up into the tide and edging closer.

"Is that one of the Lang boats?" he heard Gregory ask.

A paroxysm of coughing prevented Blair's immediate reply. The young officer looked eagerly at the approaching craft, upon the bow of which a dark-skinned man leaned carelessly against the wire-stays. He noticed that the man was tall and straight. Upon his head a gaudy red cap rested with a rakish air. His eyes were upon the Lang dock as he stood with folded arms and waited for the boat to nose up to the near-by wharf.

Gregory admitted to himself that there was something masterful about the red-capped stranger, at the same time, repellent. The crowd of aliens moreover, he noticed, fell away respectfully. The newcomer was evidently a personage in the community.

Gregory, watching him as he stepped from the launch, instinctively disliked him.

"That's Mascola."

Blair bit the words savagely.

Gregory surveyed the newcomer with interest.

"He has a boat," he said. "Let's go over and get it."

Blair put out a restraining hand.

"There would be no use," he said. "Mascola wouldn't let us have that boat to save our lives."

Gregory was already on his way to the Italian

dock. Blair started to overtake him. Then he glanced down the bay and his face brightened.

"Wait," he called. "Here comes one of Lang's boats now. Perhaps they will know something."

With the approach of the second fishing-boat came a crowd of curious fishing folk of all nationalities. Men, women and children clustered about the dock, imbued with a lust for excitement and a morbid desire to learn the worst from the