“Shall we walk, boys, or shall I send for my carriage?”

“Your carriage,” repeated Ajax.  “Are you speaking of the patrol-waggon?  It is just round the corner.”

This allusion to the police was not wasted upon The Babe’s friend, who scowled and retorted glibly—­

“There’s better men than you, mister, who ride in that.”

After this exchange of pleasantries we took the road, and followed our guide across a great thorough-fare and into Kearney Street.  Thence into the labyrinth of Chinatown.

“Think ye could find yer way out of this?” asked our guide presently.

We had passed through an abominable rookery, and were walking down a narrow alley, seemingly deserted.  Yet I was sensible that eyes were furtively watching us from behind barred windows, and I fancied that I heard whispers—­mere guttural sounds, that conveyed nothing to the ear, save, perhaps, a warning that we were on unholy ground.  The path we trod was foul with refuse; the stench was sickening; the most forlorn cur would surely have slunk from such a kennel; and here, here, to this lazar-house of all that was unclean and infamous, came of his own free-will—­The Babe!

“My God!” exclaimed Ajax, in reply.  “How can any man find his way into it?  And, hark ye, my friend, for reasons that we won’t trouble you with, we have not asked the police to accompany us, but if we are not back at our hotel in two hours’ time, the clerk has instructions to send a constable to your saloon.”

“Here we air,” said our guide.  “Duck yer heads.”

We stooped beneath a low arch, and entered a dark passage.  At the end was a rickety staircase; and already we could smell the pungent fumes of the opium, and taste its bitterness.  As I groped my way down the stairs I was conscious of an uncanny silence, a silence eloquent of a sleep that is as death, a sleep that always ends in death.  It was easy to conceive death as a hideous personality lurking at the bottom of those rotten stairs, waiting patiently for his victims; not constrained to go abroad for them, knowing that they were creeping to him, creeping and crawling, unassoiled by priest, hindered by no physician, unredeemed by love, deaf, and blind, and dumb!

* * * * *

At the foot of the stairs was another passage, darker and filthier than the one above; the walls were streaming with moisture, and the atmosphere almost unendurable.  At that time the traffic in opium was receiving the serious attention of the authorities.  Certain scandalous cases of bribery at the Custom House had stirred the public mind, and the police were instructed to raid all opium dens, and arrest whomsoever might be found in them.  The devotees of the “pipe” were accordingly compelled to lie snug in places without the pale of police supervision:  and this awful den was one of them.