When, presently, _The Dart_ turned her head eastward the breeze was less apparent. For a moment the sun broke through and the waters of the Sound took on new shades of paler green as they broke past the stern. But the clouds soon closed again. Harry, lying against the low handrail at the edge of the cabin roof, showed an inclination toward slumber. Gerald and Kendall chatted of a hundred things while the launch shot her way steadily and swiftly along. Fishers Island grew larger and nearer. A four-masted schooner lazily dipped by and a long, low torpedo destroyer, her battleship-gray hull scarcely distinguishable from the sullen water, steamed toward the mouth of the Thames River, probably on her way to the Navy Yard above New London. Suddenly a slight exclamation from Gerald brought Kendall’s attention back from the wicked-looking craft. Gerald was gazing southward in surprise. All vestige of Long Island was gone and a bank of gray fog was advancing across the Sound.