We might pick up
information there."
Kerry smiled savagely.
"I've got half a dozen good men doing every dive from Wapping to
Gravesend," he answered. "But if you think it worth looking into
personally, say the word."
"Well, my dear sir,"--Seton Pasha tossed the end of his cheroot into
the empty grate--"what else can we do?"
Kerry banged his fist on the table.
"You're right!" he snapped. "We're stuck! But anything's better than
nothing. We'll start here and now; and the first joint we'll make for
is Dougal's."
"Dougal's?" echoed Seton Pasha.
"That's it--Dougal's. A danger spot on the Isle of Dogs used by the
lowest type of sea-faring men and not barred to Arabs, Chinks, and
other gaily-colored fowl. If there's any chat going on about dope,
we'll hear it in Dougal's."
Seton Pasha stood up, smiling grimly. "Dougal's it shall be," he said.
CHAPTER XXXII
ON THE ISLE OF DOGS
As the police beat left Limehouse Pier, a clammy south-easterly breeze
blowing up-stream lifted the fog in clearly defined layers, an effect
very singular to behold. At one moment a great arc-lamp burning above
the Lavender Pond of the Surrey Commercial Dock shot out a yellowish
light across the Thames. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light
vanished again as a stratum of mist floated before it.
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