"Streak it" he did, and not a policeman on duty, after a brief glance at his grim face and that of the Superintendent within, did more than hold up every cart, cab, tram, or 'bus that was likely to impede his way. Obviously the Yard, as vested in the sacred person of Superintendent Narkom and his prime minister Lennard, was "on active duty" and like a fire engine in speed and purpose, the Yard limousine rocked and swayed its way through grimy lanes and malodorous byways till it reached the squalid region known as Limehouse Docks. Here Lennard could go no farther, and ere the car had pulled up, quivering, the portly form of the Superintendent had thrown itself out, and was peering into the sunlit distances. "Wait here, Lennard, and when the others come along bring them to Dock 3 and look out for Barge No. 1, if we are not here first." "Righto, sir," said Lennard. But already Mr. Narkom was out of sight, all other duties forgotten. Swiftly he turned a sharp corner, nearly falling over a sailor leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. At the first whiff, Mr. Narkom glanced up swiftly. It did not take his trained sense long to recognize that it was a French cigarette--hence Apache--and that Cleek must be here, in need of him! "La, la, but you are queek," the man muttered. "It is ze brave Super-in-tend-ent and he come for his gr-great frien' Cleek--is it not so, my frien'?" "Yes, yes--_you know_! He is here?" gasped Mr. Narkom, barely, if at all, stopping to think of any possible peril to himself. "You shall be finely rewarded for this, my good man," he said, warmly. "Lead on----" "But yes," was the reply, "a brave reward. Come!" He turned silently and swiftly, beckoning to the Superintendent to follow. Nothing loath and unsuspecting, Mr. Narkom turned and followed the sailor till they reached one of the docks--and a barge. "This is dock 3," he said, as he noticed the number. "Quite right," said his guide. "Get in, queek--ze boat--ze others, zay weel return and it weel be too late." That was sufficient for Mr. Narkom. Obviously, his friend was in danger; equally obvious was it that this guide had brought him as a reinforcement against returning Apaches. "Get in" he did, and it was not until he had stumbled down a dark companionway into the grimy cabin and heard the door click swiftly behind him that he realized he was trapped--deceived by a trick as simple as it had been effective. The sweat stood out on the Superintendent's forehead, rolling down in great beads, while his hands grew cold and clammy. "Cleek!" he cried, hoping even now that his ally were with him to help and be helped! But a light laugh--half snarl, half sneer--caused him to turn. His guide stood regarding him with mocking amusement. "Bravo! my frien'--so easy it was! Caught like the great big turkey-gobbler. Oh, _non, non_--but not so queek, my frien'----"