THE FATE OF A PRISONER The _Seminole_ headed straight out into the lake, its course evidently a little to the north of east.

The steady throb of the engine exhibited no lack of power, the snowy wake behind telling of rapid progress.

There was a distinct swell to the water, increasing as they advanced, but not enough to seriously retard speed, the sharp bow of the yacht cutting through the waves like the blade of a knife, the broken water churning along the sides.

West clung to his perch, peering out through the open port, watching the fast disappearing shore line in the giant curve from the Municipal Pier northward to Lincoln Park.

In spite of the brightness overhead, there must have been fog in the air, for that distant view quickly became obscure and then as suddenly vanished altogether.