As they drew near the wharf, Carrie jerked her head in the direction of the little ugly cluster of buildings which Max remembered so well.

“There’s a passage under there,” she said in a whisper, leaning forward on her oar, “through which they let the dead body of the man—­you know—­out into the river.  It’s just near here.”

Max shuddered, and at the same moment there burst from the girl’s lips a hoarse cry.

Max turned sharply, and saw that she was staring down into the water.

“Look!  Look there!” whispered she, gasping, trembling.

“What is it?” cried he.

But even as he asked, he knew that the dark object he saw floating in the water was the body of a man.

By a dexterous movement of her oar, Carrie had brought the boat alongside the black mass, and then, with the boat-hook, which she used with an evidently practiced hand, she drew the body close.

Max, sick with horror, leaned over just as Carrie’s exertion’s brought the face of the man to view.

“He’s dead!” cried he, hoarsely.  “It’s another murder by those vile wretches in there!”

An exclamation burst from the girl’s lips.

“Look at him!  Look at his face!  Who is he?” whispered she, with trembling lips.

Max looked, putting his hand under the head and lifting it out of the water.

Then, with a great shout, he tore at the body, clutching it, trying to drag it into the boat.

“Great Heaven!  It’s Dudley!”

CHAPTER XXI.

A DUBIOUS REFUGE.

The night was clammy and cold.  The fog was growing thicker, blacker.  And the water of the Thames, as Max plunged his hand into it, struggling to raise the body of his friend, was ice-cold to the touch.

Carrie had seized her oar again, and was bringing the boat’s head rapidly round, right under the stern of a barge which was moored close to Plumtree Wharf.

“Hold him; don’t let him go!” cried she imperiously.  “But don’t try to drag him into the boat until I get her alongside.  You can’t do it without help.  And if you could you’d pull the boat over.”

The caution was necessary.  Max had lost his head, and was making frantic efforts to raise the body of his friend over the boat’s side.

“But he may be alive still!  And if there’s a chance—­oh, if there’s the least chance—­”

“There’ll be none if you don’t do as I tell you!” cried Carrie, tartly.

By this time a lad on board the barge was looking over the side at them, not seeing much, however, in the gloom.  Carrie whistled twice.

“Hello!” replied he, evidently recognizing a signal he was used to.

“Is that Bob?”

“Yes.”

“Lower a rope, and hold on like a man, Bob.  We’ve got a man here drowned or half-drowned; and we want to get him on the wharf in a twinkling.”