In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but
when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that
every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently
represented. Jones, of the _Gleaner_, was coming out as I went in,
and:
"Hello, Addison!" he cried, "this is quite in your line! It's as mad
as 'Alice in Wonderland.'"
I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock
building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group
comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were
unclassifiable. Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up,
and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty
before it.
"I call it damned impudence, Addison!" exclaimed one pressman. "The
dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector
Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard. I should think he
has stopped on the way to get his lunch."
The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to
the man on duty.
"You have orders to admit no one, constable?" I asked.
"That's so, sir," he replied. "We're waiting for Detective-Inspector
Gatton, who has been put in charge of the case."
"Ah! Gatton," I muttered, and, stepping aside from the expectant
group, I filled and lighted my pipe, convinced that anything to be
learned I should learn from Inspector Gatton, for he and I were old
friends, having been mutually concerned in several interesting cases.
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