The dock gates loomed ahead. Although they were open, a group of uniformed police checked everybody who passed through. We watched as the police stopped a cart, questioning the driver and examining its load of sacks by thrusting a spiked pole into each one.
“You can enter,” the sergeant in charge said. A tall man with mutton-chop whiskers, he said something to the three constables that made them laugh.
“Lag a little behind now,” Mr Carmichael spoke quietly. “I'll pave the way. Follow in a few moments and be careful of that sergeant.”
Despite my nervousness, I could not help admiring Mr Carmichael's calm as he strolled up to the policemen. Looking like a man without a care in the world, he spoke to them for a moment, laughed, and handed each a cheroot from a case he produced.
“What's he
