“Well, there's no sign from Max,” said Rogers; “and as we aren't ten yards above the wharf, we cannot fail to hear the signal. For my part I never noticed anything suspicious, and never had anything reported, about this ginger firm, and where the swell dope-shop I've heard about can be situated, beats me. It can't very well be UNDER the place, or it would be below the level of the blessed river!” “This waiting makes me sick!” growled Stringer. “If I understand aright--and I'm not sure that I do--there are two women tucked away there somewhere in that place”--he jerked his thumb aimlessly into the fog; “and here we are hanging about with enough men in yards, in doorways, behind walls, and freezing on the river, to raid the Houses of Parliament!” “It's a pity we didn't get the word from the hospitals before Max was actually inside,” said Rogers. “For three wealthy ladies to be driven to three public hospitals in a sort of semi-conscious condition, with symptoms of opium, on the same evening isn't natural. It points to the fact that the boss of the den has UNLOADED! He's been thoughtful where his lady clients were concerned, but probably the men have simply been kicked out and left to shift for themselves. If we only knew one of them it might be confirmed.” “It's not worth worrying about, now,” growled Stringer. “Let's have a look at the time.” He fumbled inside his overcoat and tugged out his watch. “Here's a light,” said Rogers, and shone the ray of an electric torch upon the watch-face. “A quarter-to-three,” grumbled Stringer. “There may be murder going on, and here we are.”... A sudden clamor arose upon the shore, near by; a sound as of sledge-hammers at work. But above this pierced shrilly the call of a police whistle. “What's that?” snapped Rogers, leaping up. “Stand by there!” The sound of the whistle grew near and nearer; then came a voice--that of Sergeant Sowerby--hailing them through the fog. “DUNBAR'S IN! But the gang have escaped! They've got to a motor launch twenty yards down, on the end of the creek”... But already the police boat was away. “Let her go!” shouted Rogers--“close inshore! Keep a sharp lookout for a cutter, boys!” Stringer, aroused now to excitement, went blundering forward through the fog, joining the men in the bows. Four pairs of eyes were peering through the mist, the damnable, yellow mist that veiled all things. “Curse the fog!” said Stringer; “it's just our damn luck!” “Cutter 'hoy!” bawled a man at his side suddenly, one of the river police more used to the mists of the Thames. “Cutter on the port bow, sir!” “Keep her in sight,” shouted Rogers from the stern; “don't lose her for your lives!” Stringer, at imminent peril of precipitating himself into the water, was craning out over the bows and staring until his eyes smarted. “Don't you see her?” said one of the men on the lookout. “She carries no lights, of course, but you can just make out the streak of her wake.”