“Good!” rapped Kerry. “Where can we find a boat?”
“Well,” Jervis smiled. “There are several lying there if you didn’t come in an R.P. boat.”
“We did. But I’ll dismiss it. We want a small boat.”
“Very good, sir. We shall have to pinch one!”
“That doesn’t matter,” declared Kerry glancing at Seton with a sudden twinkle discernible in his steely eyes. “What do you say, sir?”
“I agree with you entirely,” replied Seton quietly. “We must find a boat, and lie off somewhere to watch for George. He should be worth following.”
“We’ll be moving, then,” said the Leman Street detective. “It will be high tide in an hour.”
They finished their coffee as quickly as possible; the stuff was not far below boiling-point. Then Jervis returned the cups to the counter. “Good night, Pat!” he cried, and rejoined Seton and Kerry.
As they came out into the desolation of the scrap heaps, the last traces of fog had disappeared and a steady breeze came up the river, fresh and salty from the Nore. Jervis led them in a north-easterly direction, threading a way through pyramids of rubbish, until with the wind in their teeth they came out upon the river bank at a point where the shore shelved steeply downwards. A number of boats lay on the shingle.
“We’re pretty well opposite Greenwich Marshes,” said Jervis. “You can just see one of the big gasometers. The end boat is George’s.”