Beyond a great expanse of unbroken darkness a ray of moonlight slanted into the place wherein we stood, spilling its cold radiance upon rows of kegs.

“That’s another door,” continued my friend—­I now began dimly to perceive him beside me.  “If my calculations are not entirely wrong, it opens on a wharf gate—­”

A steam siren hooted dismally, apparently from quite close at hand.

“I’m right!” snapped Smith.  “That turning leads down to the gate.  Come on, Petrie!”

He directed the light of the electric torch upon a narrow path through the ranks of casks, and led the way to the further door.  A good two feet of moonlight showed along the top.  I heard Smith straining; then—­

“These kegs are all loaded with grease!” he said, “and I want to reconnoiter over that door.”

“I am leaning on a crate which seems easy to move,” I reported.  “Yes, it’s empty.  Lend a hand.”

We grasped the empty crate, and between us, set it up on a solid pedestal of casks.  Then Smith mounted to this observation platform and I scrambled up beside him, and looked down upon the lane outside.

It terminated as Smith had foreseen at a wharf gate some six feet to the right of our post.  Piled up in the lane beneath us, against the warehouse door, was a stack of empty casks.  Beyond, over the way, was a kind of ramshackle building that had possibly been a dwelling-house at some time.  Bills were stuck in the ground-floor window indicating that the three floors were to let as offices; so much was discernible in that reflected moonlight.

I could hear the tide, lapping upon the wharf, could feel the chill from the river and hear the vague noises which, night nor day, never cease upon the great commercial waterway.

“Down!” whispered Smith.  “Make no noise!  I suspected it.  They heard the car following!”

I obeyed, clutching at him for support; for I was suddenly dizzy, and my heart was leaping wildly—­furiously.

“You saw her?” he whispered.

Saw her! yes, I had seen her!  And my poor dream-world was toppling about me, its cities, ashes and its fairness, dust.

Peering from the window, her great eyes wondrous in the moonlight and her red lips parted, hair gleaming like burnished foam and her anxious gaze set upon the corner of the lane—­was Karamaneh . . .  Karamaneh whom once we had rescued from the house of this fiendish Chinese doctor; Karamaneh who had been our ally; in fruitless quest of whom,—­when, too late, I realized how empty my life was become—­I had wasted what little of the world’s goods I possessed;—­Karamaneh!

“Poor old Petrie,” murmured Smith—­“I knew, but I hadn’t the heart—­He has her again—­God knows by what chains he holds her.  But she’s only a woman, old boy, and women are very much alike—­very much alike from Charing Cross to Pagoda Road.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment; I am ashamed to confess that I was trembling; then, clenching my teeth with that mechanical physical effort which often accompanies a mental one, I swallowed the bitter draught of Nayland Smith’s philosophy.  He was raising himself, to peer, cautiously, over the top of the door.  I did likewise.