"They won't want us butting in," he remarked. "All the same, we might see a little of the fun. It will be more like the real thing than this." They passed down the few stairs into the bar. Several of the men had paused for a drink, but others had already slunk out into the street. Following on the heels of the hindmost, Aaron Rodd and his companion found themselves almost swallowed up in a sudden fog which had rolled in from the river. From somewhere in the midst of the chaos they heard a quick, authoritative voice. "Joe, you and half a dozen of you take the corners of the street. Hold up anything that tries to come down. Start a fight amongst yourselves if there are coppers about. You others come out on the wharf." "That Dutchman's in this, I'll swear," the poet whispered. "Let's try and find our way down to the river. I know where the gate is." Almost as he spoke, a heavy hand descended upon his shoulder, and a dark, evil face was thrust almost into his. "Look here, guv'nor," the man said, "you mayn't be after any 'arm down 'ere but it's one o' them nights we don't need strangers around. You tumble? The old man's wolves are out and they've a nasty way of snapping anything that comes along." "What's the game, Sid?" the poet asked engagingly. "We're only here for a bit of sport." "Never you mind what the game is," was the terse reply. "You get back and watch those two chickens scratching one another's faces." There was a moment's silence. Then from a few yards off came the sound of a slight moan, as from a person suffocating. "What's that?" Aaron Rodd demanded sharply. "Never you mind what it is," was the swift reply from their unseen adviser. "Take your carcases inside, if you want to keep them whole." He vanished in the fog. Aaron Rodd gripped his companion's arm. "Stephen," he muttered, "that was a woman's voice!" "Sounded like it," the poet assented. "Have you got your electric torch in your pocket?" "Yes!" They heard the rattle of a key in the gate which led out on to the wharf. For some time it refused to turn. Again they heard the moan, and Aaron's blood ran cold. "I can't stand this, Stephen," he whispered hoarsely. "Come on." "One moment," the poet answered. "They can't get the gate open. I don't believe the guv'nor's on to this. Stay where you are for a minute." He hurried back, tore up the stairs and into the dimly lit room, filled still with breathless expectancy. It was the end of another round, during which Canary Joe had obtained some slight advantage. The poet walked straight up the room, regardless of the growls which assailed him, and touched its presiding spirit upon the shoulder. "Guv'nor," he said, "you told me, when we had dealings, that you'd never taken on any job in which there was a woman to be harried." "That's right, boy," Jacob Potts agreed.