sucked in streams of sweethearts and more impersonal lovers of life and
laughter, and spewed out sots close-locked in embraces of maudlin affection
or brutal combat. Bobbies kept an eye on the Red Moon, a respectful one:
interference with the time-hallowed customs and prerogatives of its
clientèle was something to be adventured with extreme discretion.

Out of the hinterland of Limehouse, a tall man came to the Red Moon that
night, walking with long, loose-jointed strides, holding his head high and
looking over the heads of all he passed with a fixed, far gaze. He had a
hatchet-face, sallow, with lantern jaws, a petulant mouth, hot eyes that
showed too much white above their pupils. A lank black mane greased his
collar. His garments, shoddy but whole, were stained and bleached in spots,
apparently the work of acids, and so wrinkled and shapeless as to suggest
that their owner slept without undressing as a matter of habit. The pockets
of his coat bulged noticeably.

Shouldering heedlessly into the saloon-bar, he found it deserted except for
a chinless potman: the liveliest evening trade was always plied in the
cheaper bars adjacent.

One glance sufficed to identify him: with a surly nod the potman ducked
behind a partition to call the proprietor. Drinks were in order when this
last appeared; and a brief conference in undertones ended when, having made
careful reconnaissance, the publican nodded shortly to the patron, a jerk
of his thumb designating a small door let into the wall to one side of the
bar proper.

Through this the tall man passed to find himself upon a dark stairway, at
the foot of which another door admitted to an underground chamber where an
apparently exclusive social gathering was in session of Saturnalia.