“There’s the Joy-Shop, along on the left,” said Fletcher, breaking in upon my reflections.  “You’ll notice a faint light; it’s shining out through the open door.  Then, here is the wharf.”

He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside which we were standing; and a moment later—­

“All right—­slip through,” he said.

I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going on the opposite bank.

“Go steady!” warned Fletcher.  “It’s only a few paces to the edge of the wharf.”

I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.

“Here is my electric lamp,” I said.  “It will serve the purpose better.”

“Good,” muttered my companion.  “Show a light down here, so that we can find our way.”

With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting timbers of the crazy structure.  The mist hung denser over the river, but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore.  These, without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain; along the water level lay a belt of darkness.

“Let me give them the signal,” said Fletcher, shivering slightly and taking the lamp from my hand.

He flashed the light two or three times.  Then we both stood watching the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore.  The tide lapped upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling sounds stole up from beneath our feet.  Once there was a faint splash from somewhere below and behind us.

“There goes a rat,” said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze from the darkness under the distant shore.  “It’s gone into the cutting at the back of John Ki’s.”

He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times.  Then, all at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked a little eye of light—­once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low down upon the oily water; then was gone.

“It’s Weymouth with the cutter,” said Fletcher; “they are ready ... now for Jon Ki’s.”

We stumbled back up the slight acclivity beneath the archway to the street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them.  Into the uninviting little alley immediately opposite we plunged, and where the faint yellow luminance showed upon the muddy path before us, Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me warningly.

“Don’t speak if you can help it,” he said; “if you do, mumble any old jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing!”

He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of the Joy-Shop—­I found myself in a meanly furnished room no more than twelve feet square and very low ceiled, smelling strongly of paraffin oil.  The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly discernible in the light of a common tin lamp which stood upon a packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps.