“Not yet. I have an idea. Look yonder.”
He grasped my arm, turning me in the desired direction.
Beyond a great expanse of unbroken darkness a ray of moonlight slanted into the place wherein we stood, spilling its cold radiance upon rows of kegs.
“That’s another door,” continued my friend—I now began dimly to perceive him beside me. “If my calculations are not entirely wrong, it opens on a wharf gate—”
A steam siren hooted dismally, apparently from quite close at hand.
“I’m right!” snapped Smith. “That turning leads down to the gate. Come on, Petrie!”
He directed the light of the electric torch upon a narrow path through the ranks of casks, and led the way to the further door. A good two feet of moonlight showed along the top. I heard Smith straining; then—
“These kegs are all loaded with grease!” he said, “and I want to reconnoiter over that door.”
“I am leaning on a crate which seems easy to move,” I reported. “Yes, it’s empty. Lend a hand.”
We grasped the empty crate, and between us, set it up on a solid pedestal of casks. Then Smith mounted to this observation platform and I scrambled up beside him, and looked down upon the lane outside.