city and the bridge. Messengers, stationed on the way, were to
report the safe progress of the trucks to Brooklyn.

Constance slipped away from the boardinghouse, down through the
deserted streets to the waterfront, leaving word at home that any
message was to be sent by a trusty boy to the pier.

It was a foggy and misty night on the water, an ideal night for the
gun-runner. She was relieved to learn that there had been not a
hitch so far. Still, she reasoned, that was natural. Drummond, even
if he had not been outwitted, would scarcely have spoiled the game
until the last moment.

On the Arroyo every one was chafing. Below decks, the engineer and
his assistants were seeing that the machinery was in perfect order.
Men in the streets were posted to give Gordon warning of any danger.

In the river a tug was watching for a possible police boat. On the
wharf the only footfalls were those of Gordon himself and an
assistant from the Junta. It was dreary waiting, and Constance drew
her coat more closely around her, as she shivered in the night wind
and tried to brace herself against the unexpected.

At last the welcome muffled rumble of heavily laden carts disturbed
the midnight silence of the street leading to the river.

At once a score of men sprang from the hold of the ship, as if by
magic. One by one the cases were loaded. The men were working
feverishly by the light of battle lanterns--big lamps with
reflectors so placed as to throw the light exactly where it was