After this the Spider became more gloomy than ever and spoke only in surly monosyllables. Suddenly he turned off along a narrow, ill-lighted alleyway that led them between divers small mean houses and tall, dark warehouses and brought them suddenly out upon the misty foreshore beyond which the dim and mighty river flowed. On they went, the Spider's depression growing perceptibly, until at last their feet trod the rough planking of a narrow causeway which ended in a dark, raft-like structure moored out in the river. Here was a small and dismal shack from whose solitary window a feeble ray of light beamed. Ravenslee shivered suddenly and stopped to stare about him while his listless hands changed to tight-clenched fists. What was it? What was there about this dismal, silent place that seemed to leap at him all at once from the dimness, he knew not whence? Was it the shack with its solitary light, or the broad river lapping with soft sighings and low weeping sounds among the piles below, or was it something in the altered aspect of the guiding figure that led him forward, slow and ever slower, as if with dragging feet, and yet with feet that trod so softly? "Spider," said he at last, speaking in hushed and breathless manner, "Spider--where are we?" and speaking he shivered again, even while his clenched hand wiped the sweat from his brow. The Spider made no answer, for the feeble light was blotted out by a very solid something which, approaching softly, resolved itself into a burly, blue-clad form whose silver buttons and shield showed conspicuous. "What's doin'!" demanded a voice. "Who is it?" The voice was hoarse and authoritative, but the gruff tones were schooled, it seemed, to an almost unnatural softness. "'S all right, Micky," answered the Spider in the same subdued tone, "it's only me come for d' Kid." "Who you got wid you there, Spider?" "A pal o' mine an' d' Kid's--he's all right, Mick!" Then to Ravenslee: "Come on, bo!" Slowly they approached the shack, but, reaching the door, the Spider hesitated a long moment ere, lifting the latch, he led the way in. A fairly large room was lighted by a lamp that stood upon a rickety table before which sat a young-faced, white-haired man, very industriously writing in a small account book; upon the table before him were a number of articles very neatly arranged, among which Ravenslee noticed a cheap wrist-watch, a hair-comb, a brooch, and a small chain purse. He was yet gazing at these and at the white-haired man, who, having nodded once to the Spider, continued to write so busily, when he was startled to hear a long-drawn, shuddering sigh. Turning suddenly sharp about, he stared toward a dark corner where, among a litter of oars, misshapen bundles, boxes, and odds and ends, was a small stove, and, crouched above it, his head between his hands, he beheld Spike.