On went the Eurasian, up to her waist in the flood, with Max gaining
upon her, now, at every stride. There was a damp freshness in the air
of the passage, and a sort of mist seemed to float above the water. This
mist had a familiar smell....
They were approaching the river, and there was a fog to-night!
Even as he realized the fact, the quarry vanished, and the ray of light
from Max's lamp impinged upon the opening in an iron sluice gate. The
Eurasian had passed it, but Max realized that he must lower his head if
he would follow. He ducked rapidly, almost touching the muddy water with
his face. A bank of yellow fog instantly enveloped him, and he pulled up
short, for, instinctively, he knew that another step might precipitate
him into the Thames.
He strove to peer about him, but the feeble ray of the lamp was
incapable of penetrating the fog. He groped with his fingers, right and
left, and presently found slimy wooden steps. He drew himself closely
to these, and directed the light upon them. They led upward. He mounted
cautiously, and was clear of the oily water, now, and upon a sort of
gangway above which lowered a green and rotting wooden roof.
Obviously, the tide was rising; and, after seeking vainly to peer
through the fog ahead, he turned and descended the steps again, finding
himself now nearly up to his armpits in water.
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