The men who had been on the canal bank were gone. The propellers revolving slowly, the boat stole down the dark waters, after a short time slipped under a bridge over which street-cars were passing, and headed for Deptford and the river. Dr. Oberzohn took off his overcoat and laid it tenderly inside the shelter of the open cabin, tenderly because every pocket was packed tight with money. To Mirabelle Leicester, crouching in the darkness of that sheltered space, the time that passed had no dimension. Once an authoritative voice hailed them from the bank. It was a policeman; she saw him after the boat had passed. A gas-lamp showed the glitter of his metal buttons. But soon he was far behind. Deptford was near when they reached a barrier which neither ingenuity nor money could pass; a ragged nightbird peered down curiously at the motor-boat. “You can’t get through here, guv’nor,” he said simply. “The lock doesn’t open until high tide.” “When is this high tide?” asked Oberzohn breathlessly. “Six o’clock to-morrow morning,” said the voice. For a long time he saw, stricken to inactivity by the news, and then he sent his engines into reverse and began circling round. “There is one refuge for us, young miss,” he said. “Soon we shall see it. Now I will tell you something. I desire so much to live. Do you also?” She did not answer. “If you cry out, if you will make noises, I will kill you—that is all,” he said; and the very simplicity of his words, the lack of all emphasis behind the deadly earnestness, told her that he would keep his word. _Chapter XXXII_ _The Search_ “’WARE man-traps,” said Gonsalez. The white beam of his lamp had detected the ugly thing. He struck at it with his stick, and with a vicious snap it closed. “Here’s one that’s been sprung,” he said, and examined the teeth. “And, what’s more, it has made a catch! There’s blood here.” Manfred and Digby were searching the ground cautiously. Then Manfred heard the quick intake of his breath, and he stooped again, picked up a strip of braided cloth. “A man’s,” he said, and his relief betrayed his fear. “Somebody in evening dress, and quite recent.” He looked at his finger. “The blood is still wet.” Digby showed him the ventilator grating through which he had smelt the incense, and when Leon stooped, the faint aroma still remained. “We will try the factory first. If that draws blank, we’ll ask Dr. Oberzohn’s guidance, and if it is not willingly given I shall persuade him.” And in the reflected light of the lamp George Manfred saw the hard Leon he knew of old. “This time I shall not promise: my threat will be infinitely milder than my performance.” They came to the dark entry of the factory, and Manfred splashed his light inside. “You’ll have to walk warily here,” he said.