In the
neighborhood of the Docks its density was extraordinary, and the
purlieus of Limehouse became mere mysterious gullies of smoke
impossible to navigate unless one were very familiar with their
intricacies and dangers.
Chief Inspector Kerry, wearing a cardigan under his oilskins, tapped
the pavement with the point of his malacca like a blind man. No
glimmer of light could he perceive. He could not even see his
companion.
"Hell!" he snapped irritably, as his foot touched a brick wall, "where
the devil are you, constable?"
"Here beside you, sir," answered P.C. Bryce, of K Division, his guide.
"Which side?"
"Here, sir."
The constable grasped Kerry's arm.
"But we've walked slap into a damn brick wall!"
"Keep the wall on your left, sir, and it's all clear ahead."
"Clear be damned!" said Kerry. "Are we nearly there?"
"About a dozen paces and we shall see the lamp--if it's been lighted."
"And if not we shall stroll into the river, I suppose?"
"No danger of that. Even if the lamp's out, we shall strike the iron
pillar."
"I don't doubt it," said Kerry grimly.
They proceeded at a slow pace. Dull reports and a vague clangor were
audible. These sounds were so deadened by the clammy mist that they
might have proceeded from some gnome's workshop deep in the bowels of
the earth.
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