“No,” rapped Kerry. “It’s a coffee-shop used by the dockers. You’ll see when we get inside. The place never closes so far as I know, and if we made ’em close there would be a dock strike.” He crossed and pushed open the swing door. As Seton entered at his heels, a babel of coarse voices struck upon his ears and he found himself in a superheated atmosphere suggestive of shag, stale spirits, and imperfectly washed humanity. Dougal’s proved to be a kind of hut of wood and corrugated iron, not unlike an army canteen. There were two counters, one at either end, and two large American stoves. Oil lamps hung from the beams, and the furniture was made up of trestle tables, rough wooden chairs, and empty barrels. Coarse, thick curtains covered all the windows but one. The counter further from the entrance was laden with articles of food, such as pies, tins of bully-beef, and “saveloys,” while the other was devoted to liquid refreshment in the form of ginger-beer and cider (or so the casks were conspicuously labelled), tea, coffee, and cocoa. The place was uncomfortably crowded; the patrons congregating more especially around the two stoves. There were men who looked like dock laborers, seamen, and riverside loafers; lascars, Chinese, Arabs, and dagoes; and at the “solid” counter there presided a red-armed, brawny woman, fierce of mien and ready of tongue, while a huge Irishman, possessing a broken nose and deficient teeth, ruled the “liquid” department with a rod of iron and a flow of language which shocked even Kerry. This formidable ruffian, a retired warrior of the ring, was Dougal, said to be the strongest man from Tower Hill to the River Lea. As they entered, several of the patrons glanced at them curiously, but no one seemed to be particularly interested. Kerry wore his cap pulled well down over his fierce eyes, and had the collar of his topcoat turned up. He looked about him, as if expecting to recognize someone; and as they made their way to Dougal’s counter, a big fellow dressed in the manner of a dock laborer stepped up to the Chief Inspector and clapped him on the shoulder. “Have one with me, Mike,” he said, winking. “The coffee’s good.” Kerry bent towards him swiftly, and: “Anybody here, Jervis?” he whispered. “George Martin is at the bar. I’ve had the tip that he ‘traffics.’ You’ll remember he figured in my last report, sir.” Kerry nodded, and the trio elbowed their way to the counter. The pseudo-dock hand was a detective attached to Leman Street, and one who knew the night birds of East End London as few men outside their own circles knew them. “Three coffees, Pat,” he cried, leaning across the shoulder of a heavy, red-headed fellow who lolled against the counter. “And two lumps of sugar in each.” “To hell wid yer sugar!” roared Dougal, grasping three cups deftly in one hairy hand and filling them from a steaming urn. “There’s no more sugar tonight.” “Not any _brown_ sugar?” asked the customer.