If land was near it remained invisible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of a boat.

There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be sure.

Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared, fading away like a mirage.

No sound reached him to cause the vision to seem real--no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men, creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and vanishing into the darkness.
My God, what could such action mean?
Why were these fellows deserting the _Seminole_, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom?
Was the yacht disabled?
sinking?
and had they merely forgotten him in their own eagerness to escape?
Were they in mid-lake?
or close to some point of land?
Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate unknown?
Unknown! The word rising to his brain was the answer.

There was the crest of the plot.