“Good heavens!” he muttered, as he stared across the crowded quay. “Andrius!”
“Right you are, guv’nor,” whispered Spurge. “It’s that very same, and no mistake! And now you’ll perhaps see how I put things together, like. No doubt those folk as sent Sir Cresswell that message did see the Pike going east last evening—just so, but there wasn’t no reason, considering what that chap and his lot had at stake why they shouldn’t put him and one or two more, very likely, on one of the many tugs that’s to be met with out there off the fishing grounds. What I conclude they did, guv’nor, was to charter one o’ them tugs and run her in here. And I expect they’ve got the stuff on board her, now, and when the tide comes up, out they’ll go, and be off into the free and open again, to pick the Pike up somewhere ’twixt here and the Dogger Bank. Ah!—smart ’uns they are, no doubt. But—we’ve got ’em!”
“Not yet,” said Copplestone. “What are we to do. Better go back and get help, eh?”
He was keenly watching Andrius, and as the skipper of the Pike suddenly moved, he drew Spurge further into the alley.
“He’s coming out of that hatchway!” whispered Copplestone. “If he comes ashore he’ll see us, and then—”
“No matter, guv’nor,” said Spurge reassuringly. “They can’t get out o’ Scarvell’s Cut into the river till the tide serves. Yes, that’s Cap’n Andrius right enough—and he’s coming ashore.”
Andrius had by that time drawn himself out of the hatchway and now revealed himself in the jersey, the thick leg-wear, and short sea-boots of an oceangoing man. Copplestone’s recollection of him as he showed himself on board the Pike was of a very smartly attired, rather dandified person—only some deep scheme, he knew, would have caused him to assume this disguise, and he watched him with interest as he rolled ashore and disappeared within the lower story of the sail loft. Spurge, too, watched with all his eyes, and he turned to Copplestone with a gleam of excitement.
“Guv’nor!” he said. “We’ve trapped ’em beautiful! I know that place—I’ve worked in there in my time. I know a way into it, from the back—we’ll get in that way and see what’s being done. ’Tain’t worked no longer, that sail loft—it’s all falling to pieces. But first—help!”
“How are we to get that?” asked Copplestone, eagerly.
“I’ll go it,” replied Spurge. “I know a man just aback of here that’ll run up to the town with a message—chap that can be trusted, sure and faithful. ’Bide here five minutes, sir—I’ll send a message to Mr. Vickers—this chap’ll know him and’ll find him. He can come down with the rest—and the police, too, if he likes. Keep your eyes skinned, guv’nor.”
He twisted away like an eel into the crowd of workers and idlers, and left Copplestone at the entrance to the alley, watching. And he had not been so left more than a couple of minutes when a woman slipped past the mouth of the alley, swiftly, quietly, looking neither to right nor left, of whose veiled head and face he caught one glance. And in that glance he recognized her—Addie Chatfield!
But in the moment of that glance Copplestone also recognized something vastly more important. Here was the explanation of the mystery of the early-morning doings at the old tower. The footprints of a woman who wore fashionable and elegant boots? Addie Chatfield, of course! Was she not old Peter’s daughter, a chip of the old block, even though a feminine chip? And did not he and Gilling know that she had been mixed up with Peter at the Bristol affair? Great Scott!—why, of course. Addie was an accomplice in all these things!
If Copplestone had the least shadow of doubt remaining in his mind as to this conclusion, it was utterly dissipated when, peering cautiously round the corner of his hiding place, he saw Addie disappear within the old sail loft into which Andrius had betaken himself. Of course, she had gone to join her fellow conspirators. He began to fume and fret, cursing himself for allowing Spurge to bring him down there alone—if only they had had Gilling and Vickers with them, armed as they were—
“All right, guv’nor!” Spurge suddenly whispered at his shoulder. “They’ll be here in a quarter of an hour—I telephoned to ’em.”
“Do you know what?” exclaimed Copplestone, excitedly. “Old Chatfield’s daughter’s gone in there, where Andrius went. Just now!”
“What—the playactress!” said Spurge. “You don’t say, guv’nor? Ha!—that explains everything—that’s the missing link! Ha! But we’ll soon know what they’re after, Mr. Copplestone. Follow me—quiet as a mouse.”
Once more submitting to be led, Copplestone followed his queer guide along the alley.
XXX
The Greengrocer’s Cart
Spurge led Copplestone a little way up the narrow alley from the mouth of which they had observed the recent proceedings, suddenly turned off into a still narrower passage, and emerged at the rear of an ancient building of wood and stones which looked as if a stout shove or a strong wind would bring it down in dust and ruin.
“Back o’ that old sail loft what looks out on this cut,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at Copplestone. “Now, guv’nor, we’re going in here. As I said before, I’ve worked in this place—did a spell here when I was once lying low for a month or two. I know every inch of it, and if that lot are under this roof I know where they’ll be.”
“They’ll show fight, you know,” remarked Copplestone.
“Well, but ain’t we got
