“H’m.  That’s good.  The fun commences.  Don’t forget your part, boy.  We’re sailoring men back from a cruise to Jamaica and pretty near penniless.  Lost our jobs, and looking for others.  Told there was a factory somewhere in this part of the world that had to do with shipping, and have walked down from London.  Took six days, mind; don’t forget that.  And a devilish long walk, too, I reckon!  But that’s by the way.  Your name’s Sam—­Sam Robinson.  Mine—­Bill Jones....  Our friends are ahead of us.  Come along.”

Whistling, they swung up to the brightly lit little public-house, set there upon the edge of the bay.  Here and there over the unruffled surface of the waters to the left of them, a light pricked out, glowing against the gloom.  Black against the mouth of the harbour, as though etched upon a smoky background, a steamer swayed uneasily with the swell of the water at her keel, her nose touching the pier-head, a chain of lights outlining her cumbersome hulk.  Men’s voices made the night noisy, and numerous feet scuttled to and fro over the cobbles of the dockyard to where a handful of fishing boats were drawn up, only their masts showing above the landing, with here and there a ghostly wraith of sail.

Cleek paused a moment, drinking in the scene with his love of beauty, and then assumed his role of the evening.  And how well he could play any role he chose!

He cleared his throat, and addressed his companion in broad cockney.

“Gawd’s truf, Sammie!” he said.  “If this fair don’t look like a bit of ’ome.  Ain’t spotted the briny for a dog’s age.  Let’s ’ave a drink.”

Someone turned at his raucous voice and looked back over the curve of a huge shoulder.  Then he went to the doorway of the little pub, and raised a hand, with two fingers extended.  Obviously it was some sort of sign, for in an instant the noise of voices dropped, and Cleek and Dollops slouched in and up to the crowded bar.  Men made room for them on either side, as they pushed their way in, eyeing them at first with some suspicion, then, as they saw the familiar garments, calling out some hoarse jest or greeting in their own lingo, to which Cleek cheerfully responded.

A little to the right of them stood Borkins, his cap still pulled low over his eyes, and a shabby overcoat buttoned to the neck.  Cleek glanced at him out of the tail of his eye, and then, at sight of his companion, his mouth tightened.  He’d give something to measure that cur muscle for muscle, strength for strength!  The sort to steal into a man’s room at night and try to murder him!  The detective planted an arm—­brown and brawny and with a tattooed serpent winding its way round the strong wrist to the elbow (oh, wonderful make-up box!)—­on the edge of the marble bar, and called loudly for a drink.  His very voice was raw and husky with a tang of the sea in it.  Dollops’s nasal twang took up the story, while the barmaid—­a red-headed, fat woman with a coarse, hard face, who was continually smiling—­looked them up and down, and having taken stock of them set two pewter tankards of frothing ale before them, took the money from Cleek, bit it, and then with a nod dropped it into the till and came back for a chat.