A Rope on the Steps

The fog brought the light oars nearer. The boat was narrower than the skiff already tied at the lamp-post, and only one person was rowing. No name showed on the bow; the hitch, though, was a navy knot—the same as on the barge.

The heavy boots still did not move; the knife-point stayed at Edmund's back. A hoarse voice asked the water: "The type is gone. That column will not see print."

The answer from the boat was very light, a young voice with a boy's roughness still in it: "Only the living one. No dummy. When the tide turns, the ship at the bend will not wait."

The lamp-light swept the bow. Watson knew the face: the boy who had gone to light the fourth lamp, thinner now, with rope-calluses on his knuckles. He tossed a dry hemp rope onto the steps, as if to a piece of cargo.

Edmund was shoved one step forward. He did not shake his head again. He only fixed his eyes on Holmes, and his lips moved, very slightly. Watson read two syllables: Marlowe.

Holmes pressed down the revolver barrel and spoke low. "The boy is only here to take delivery. The prompter is already waiting at the bend—we follow this boat."

❦ To be continued.