“After them!” cried Coombes. “That’s Sin Sin Wa!”
Around the mazey, rubbish-strewn paths the pursuit went hotly. In sight of Dougal’s Coombes saw the swing door open and a silhouette—that of a man who carried a bag on his shoulder—pass in. George Martin followed, but the Scotland Yard man had his hand upon his shoulder.
“Police!” he said sharply. “Who’s your friend?”
George turned, red and truculent, with clenched fists.
“Mind your own bloody business!” he roared.
“Mind yours, my lad!” retorted Coombes warningly. “You’re no Thames waterman. Who’s your friend?”
“Wotcher mean?” shouted George. “You’re up the pole or canned you are!”
“Grab him!” said Coombes, and he kicked open the door and entered the saloon, followed by Inspector White and the boat’s crew.
As they appeared, the Inspector conspicuous in his uniform, backed by the group of River Police, one of whom grasped George Martin by his coat collar:
“Splits!” bellowed Dougal in a voice like a fog-horn.