my ears; train
whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were,
too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which
has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The
sky glowed sullenly red above.

"There's the Joy-Shop, along on the left," said Fletcher, breaking in
upon my reflections. "You'll notice a faint light; it's shining out
through the open door. Then, here is the wharf."

He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside
which we were standing; and a moment later--

"All right--slip through," he said.

I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the
gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low
arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going
on the opposite bank.

"Go steady!" warned Fletcher. "It's only a few paces to the edge of
the wharf."

I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.

"Here is my electric lamp," I said. "It will serve the purpose better."

"Good," muttered my companion. "Show a light down here, so that we
can find our way."

With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting
timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river,
but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible
to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These,
without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain;
along the water level lay a belt of darkness.

"Let me give them the signal," said Fletcher, shivering slightly and
taking the lamp from my hand.

He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching
the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped
upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling
sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash
from somewhere below and behind us.

"There goes a rat," said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze
from the darkness under the distant shore. "It's gone into the cutting
at the back of John Ki's."

He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times. Then, all
at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked
a little eye of light--once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low
down upon the oily water; then was gone.

"It's Weymouth with the cutter," said Fletcher; "they are ready ...
now for Jon Ki's."

We stumbled back up