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 struck suddenly athwart the darkness and found his face.  This he endured impassively, only lifting a hand to describe an obscure sign.  Immediately the light was shut off, a door opened in the wall opposite, dull light from behind disclosed the silhouette of a man in Chinese robes, his head inclined in a bow of courteous dignity.

In good English but with musical Eastern inflection a voice gave greeting: 

“Good evening, Thirteen.  You are awaited—­and welcome!”

“Good evening, Shaik Tsin,” the European replied in heavy un-English accents.  “Number One is here, yes?”

“Not yet.  But we have just received a telautographic message saying he is on his way.”

Nodding impatiently, Thirteen passed through the door, which the Chinaman quickly closed and barred.

The chamber to which one gained admittance by ways so devious and fantastic was large—­exactly how large it was difficult to guess, since all its walls were screened by black silk panels upon which golden dragons writhed and crawled.  A thick carpet of black covered every inch of visible floor space, a black silk canopy hid the ceiling, and all the room was in deep shadow save the space immediately beneath a great lamp of opalescent glass, likewise draped in black.

Here stood an octagonal table of black teakwood, on seven sides of which seven chairs were placed.  When Thirteen had taken his seat all these were occupied.  On the eighth side an eighth chair stood empty on a low dais, the heavy carving of its high back, its massive arms and legs, picked out with gold.

The six who had anticipated Thirteen at this bizarre rendezvous hailed him as a familiar, according to their several idiosyncrasies, brusquely, indifferently, or with some semblance of cordiality.  They made a motley crew.

Two were Englishman in appearance, though the figure of languid elegance in evening dress that might have graced the lounge of a West End club had a voice soft with Celtic brogue.  The other owned a gross body clothed in loud checks and, with his mean blue eyes, his mottled complexion, and cunning leer, would not have seemed out of place in a betting-ring.