goes so far as to say that he has heard—as a sort of legend—of the existence of a very large Carmelite monastery, accommodating over two hundred brothers, which stood somewhere adjoining the Thames within the area now covered by Limehouse Causeway and Pennyfields. There is a little turning not far from the wharf, known locally—it does not appear upon any map—as Prickler’s Lane; and my friend, the vicar, tells me that he has held the theory for a long time”—Sowerby referred to his notebook with great solemnity—“that this is a corruption of Pré-aux-Clerce Lane.”
“H’m!” said Dunbar; “very ingenious, at any rate. Anything else?”
“Nothing much,” said Sowerby, scanning his notes, “that you don’t know already. There was some very good stuff in the place—Oriental ware and so on, a library of books which I’m told is unique, and a tremendous stock of opium and hashish. It’s a perfect maze of doors and observation-traps. There’s a small kitchen at the end, near the head of the tunnel—which, by the way, could be used as a means of entrance and exit at low tide. All the electric power came through the meter of Kan-Suh Concessions.”
“I see,” said Dunbar, reflectively, glancing at his watch; “in a word, we know everything except”…
“What’s that?” said Sowerby, looking up.
“The identity of Mr. King!” replied the in-
