"So you didn't find 'Mona Lisa' in a false bottom, and my trunks
were not lined with smuggled cigars after all," he rasped savagely
as the stamp "Passed" was at last affixed and he paid in cash at
the little window with its sign, "Pay Duty Here: U.S. Custom House,"
some hundred dollars instead of the thousands Herndon had been
hoping to collect, if not to seize.
All through the inspection, an extra close scrutiny had been kept
on the other passengers as well, to prevent any of them from being
in league with the smugglers, though there was no direct or indirect
evidence to show that any of the others were.
We were about to leave the wharf, also, when Craig's attention was
called to a stack of trunks still remaining.
"Whose are those?" he asked as he lifted one. It felt suspiciously
light.
"Some of them belong to a Mr. Pierre and the rest to a Miss
Gabrielle," answered an inspector. "Bonded for Troy and waiting to
be transferred by the express company."
Here, perhaps, at last was an explanation, and Craig took advantage
of it. Could it be that the real seat of trouble was not here but
at some other place, that some exchange was to be made en route or
perhaps an attempt at bribery?
Herndon, too, was willing to run a risk.
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