“Yez can have one tayspoon of brown, and no more tonight,” cried Dougal. He stooped rapidly below the counter, then pushed the three cups of coffee towards the detective. The latter tossed a shilling down, at which Dougal glared ferociously. “’Twas wid sugar ye said!” he roared. A second shilling followed. Dougal swept both coins into a drawer and turned to another customer, who was also clamoring for coffee. Securing their cups with difficulty, for the red-headed man surlily refused to budge, they retired to a comparatively quiet spot, and Seton tasted the hot beverage. “H’m,” he said. “Rum! Good rum, too!” “It’s a nice position for me,” snapped Kerry. “I _don’t_ think I would remind you that there’s a police station actually on this blessed island. If there was a dive like Dougal’s anywhere West it would be raided as a matter of course. But to shut Dougal’s would be to raise hell. There are two laws in England, sir; one for Piccadilly and the other for the Isle of Dogs!” He sipped his coffee with appreciation. Jervis looked about him cautiously, and: “That’s George—the red-headed hooligan against the counter,” he said. “He’s been liquoring up pretty freely, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find that he’s got a job on tonight. He has a skiff beached below here, and I think he’s waiting for the tide.” “Good!” rapped Kerry. “Where can we find a boat?” “Well,” Jervis smiled. “There are several lying there if you didn’t come in an R.P. boat.” “We did. But I’ll dismiss it. We want a small boat.” “Very good, sir. We shall have to pinch one!” “That doesn’t matter,” declared Kerry glancing at Seton with a sudden twinkle discernible in his steely eyes. “What do you say, sir?” “I agree with you entirely,” replied Seton quietly. “We must find a boat, and lie off somewhere to watch for George. He should be worth following.” “We’ll be moving, then,” said the Leman Street detective. “It will be high tide in an hour.” They finished their coffee as quickly as possible; the stuff was not far below boiling-point. Then Jervis returned the cups to the counter. “Good night, Pat!” he cried, and rejoined Seton and Kerry. As they came out into the desolation of the scrap heaps, the last traces of fog had disappeared and a steady breeze came up the river, fresh and salty from the Nore. Jervis led them in a north-easterly direction, threading a way through pyramids of rubbish, until with the wind in their teeth they came out upon the river bank at a point where the shore shelved steeply downwards. A number of boats lay on the shingle. “We’re pretty well opposite Greenwich Marshes,” said Jervis. “You can just see one of the big gasometers. The end boat is George’s.” “Have you searched it?” rapped Kerry, placing a fresh piece of chewing-gum between his teeth. “I have, sir. Oh, he’s too wise for that!”