“The dope syndicate can only have got control of ‘the traffic’ in one way—by paying big prices and buying out competitors. If they cease to carry on for even a week they lose their control. The people who bring the stuff over from Japan, South America, India, Holland, and so forth will sell somewhere else if they can’t sell to Kazmah and Company. Therefore we want to watch the ships from likely ports, or, better still, get among the men who do the smuggling. There must be resorts along the riverside used by people of that class. We might pick up information there.” Kerry smiled savagely. “I’ve got half a dozen good men doing every dive from Wapping to Gravesend,” he answered. “But if you think it worth looking into personally, say the word.” “Well, my dear sir,”—Seton Pasha tossed the end of his cheroot into the empty grate—“what else can we do?” Kerry banged his fist on the table. “You’re right!” he snapped. “We’re stuck! But anything’s better than nothing. We’ll start here and now; and the first joint we’ll make for is Dougal’s.” “Dougal’s?” echoed Seton Pasha. “That’s it—Dougal’s. A danger spot on the Isle of Dogs used by the lowest type of sea-faring men and not barred to Arabs, Chinks, and other gaily-colored fowl. If there’s any chat going on about dope, we’ll hear it in Dougal’s.” Seton Pasha stood up, smiling grimly. “Dougal’s it shall be,” he said. CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE ISLE OF DOGS As the police boat left Limehouse Pier, a clammy south-easterly breeze blowing up-stream lifted the fog in clearly defined layers, an effect very singular to behold. At one moment a great arc-lamp burning above the Lavender Pond of the Surrey Commercial Dock shot out a yellowish light across the Thames. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light vanished again as a stratum of mist floated before it. The creaking of the oars sounded muffled and ghostly, and none of the men in the boat seemed to be inclined to converse. Heading across stream they made for the unseen promontory of the Isle of Dogs. Navigation was suspended, and they reached midstream without seeing a ship’s light. Then came the damp wind again to lift the fog, and ahead of them they discerned one of the General Steam Navigation Company’s boats awaiting an opportunity to make her dock at the head of Deptford Creek. The clamor of an ironworks on the Millwall shore burst loudly upon their ears, and away astern the lights of the Surrey Dock shone out once more. Hugging the bank they pursued a southerly course, and from Limehouse Reach crept down to Greenwich Reach. Fog closed in upon them, a curtain obscuring both light and sound. When the breeze came again it had gathered force, and it drove the mist before it in wreathing banks, and brought to their ears a dull lowing and to their nostrils a farmyard odor from the cattle pens. Ghostly flames, leaping and falling, leaping and falling, showed where a gasworks lay on the Greenwich bank ahead.