In one corner a long-suffering piano was taking cruel punishment at the
hands of a flashily dressed, sharp-faced man of horsey type. Flanking him,
two young women of the world, with that insouciance which appertains--in
Limehouse--to sweet sixteen, were chanting shrilly to his accompaniment:
both more than comfortably drunk. In the middle of the room assorted
lawbreakers gathered round a table were playing fan-tan at the top of their
lungs. At smaller tables men and women sat consuming poisons of which they
were obviously in no crying need; while in bunks builded against one wall
devotees of the pipe reclined in various stages of beatitude. The air was
hot, and foul with cigarette smoke, sickening fumes of sizzling opium,
effluvia of beer and spirits, sour reek of sweating flesh.

Incurious glances greeted the newcomer: none paid him more heed than an
indifferent nod. On his part, brief but comprehensive survey having
deepened the stamp of scorn upon his features, he ignored them all and,
proceeding directly to a bunk of the lowermost tier, aroused its occupant
with a smart tap on the shoulder.

The ostensible drug-addict looked up dreamily, then opened his eyes wide,
with surprising docility rolled out and, uttering no word, lurched to the
fan-tan table. The tall man took his place, lay down, and drew together the
unclean curtains of sleazy stuff provided to afford privacy to shrinking
souls. This done, he turned on his side and knuckled in peculiar rhythm the
back of the bunk, a solid panel which slipped smoothly to one side,
permitting the man to tumble out into still another room, a cheerless
place, with floor of stone and the smell of a vault.

When the panel had slipped back into place, closing out the bunk, the man
stood in night absolute. But after a minute a slender beam of golden light