Aft hae I rov'd by bonny Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine."

With this amorous farewell still ringing in my ears I landed at
Limehouse Pier, and bidding my friend good-bye betook myself by the
circuitous route of Emmett and Ropemaker Streets and Church Row to that
aristocratic thoroughfare known as the East India Dock Road.

The night was dark and a thick rain was falling, presenting the
mean-looking houses, muddy road, and foot-stained pavements in an aspect
that was even more depressing than was usual to them. Despite the
inclemency of the weather and the lateness of the hour, however, the
street was crowded; blackguard men and foul-mouthed women, such a class
as I had never in all my experience of rough folk encountered before,
jostled each other on the pavements with scant ceremony; costermongers
cried their wares, small boys dashed in and out of the crowd at top
speed, and flaring gin palaces took in and threw out continuous streams
of victims.

For some minutes I stood watching this melancholy picture, contrasting
it with others in my mind. Then turning to my left hand I pursued my way
in the direction I imagined the Stepney railway station to lie. It was
not pleasant walking, but I was interested in the life about me--the
people, the shops, the costermongers' barrows, and I might even say the
public-houses.

I had not made my way more than a hundred yards along the street when an
incident occurred that was destined to bring with it a train of highly
important circumstances. As I crossed the entrance to a small side
street, the door of an ill-looking tavern was suddenly thrust open and
the body of a man was propelled from it, with a considerable amount of
violence, directly into my arms. Having no desire to act as his support
I pushed him from me, and as I did so glanced at the door through which
he had come. Upon the glass was a picture, presumably nautical, and
under it this legend, "The Green Sailor." In a flash Bournemouth post
office rose before my mind's eye, the startled face of Baxter on the
door-step, the swinging pencil on the telegraph stand, and the imprint
of the mysterious message addressed to "Nikola, _Green Sailor Hotel_,
East India Dock Road." So complete was my astonishment that at first I
could do nothing but stand stupidly staring at it, then my curiosity
asserted itself and, seeking the private entra