As long as he lives, Johnny will not forget that ride across the bay. There was no moon. The water was black as ink. They were all crowded into one flat-bottomed boat. A wave would have thrown them all into the lake. But there were no waves. The water was still as the grave. He was crowded in close to Joyce Mills. He could feel her very heart beat. She said nothing but for all that, he knew what she thought. She was thinking of her father; of how he would love to be here, and wondering a bit sadly where he was and if he were living at all.  
Had she but known!
 
The boat grounded at last quite noiselessly on a sandy shore. A few whispered instructions and they were away single file over a winding moss-padded trail.
 
266
At last the lights of the lodge began to shine through the trees. They scattered, circling the place. Weapons in hand, they waited. Came the sharp command of the Federal officer. He called upon those in the lodge to surrender.
 
All that followed will remain forever blurred in Johnny’s memory. A figure rose from the bush to leap at Joyce Mills. Instinctively he sprang at the figure. They went down together. They rolled over and over, fighting hard. For one brief second he was under, pinned down. Cold steel pressed against his temple.
 
“This is the end!” he thought.
 
Then something, a gray shape, came hurtling over him. A shot rang out, something crashed into him. His light went out.
 
He could not have been unconscious more than ten minutes. When he came to, the forest was silent once more. A figure lay beside him, a man with a gray beard, his figure enshrouded in a long gray coat.
 
“The Gray Shadow!” he thought with a start. “At last he is still.”
 
267
Joyce Mills was hovering over him. When he sat up dizzily, she gave a sharp cry of joy.
 
Heavy footsteps came crashing through the brush. Drew Lane, Tom Howe and “The Ferret” were there.
 
“What happened?” Drew demanded. “They surrendered tamely enough, old Greasy Thumb and Three Fingers. The Chief was with them and—”
 
“The Chief!” Johnny could not conceal his surprise.
 
“Yes, and his whispering reporter. But what is this? And who are these?”
 
He pointed first to the Gray Shadow; then to a dark form huddled in the weeds.
 
“The Ferret” played the light of his electric torch on the dark huddled form.
 
“That,” he said impressively, “is the Spy—the worst man that ever lived. And he’s done for. Thank God! A bullet in his head.”
 
“And this,” said Johnny, tearing away a fake beard, “is Newton Mills.”

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