He was abreast of the Joy-Shop now, and in sight of the ominous old witch huddled upon the bridge.  He pulled up suddenly and stood looking at her.  Coincident with his doing so, she began to moan and sway her body to right and left as if in pain; then—­

“Kind gentleman,” she whined in a sing-song voice, “thank God you came this way to help a poor old woman.”

“What is the matter?” said Smith tersely, approaching her.

I clenched my fists.  I could have cried out; I was indeed hard put to it to refrain from crying out—­from warning him.  But his injunctions had been explicit, and I restrained myself by a great effort, preserving silence and crouching there at the window, but with every muscle tensed and a desire for action strong upon me.

“I tripped up on a rough stone, sir,” whined the old creature, “and here I’ve been sitting waiting for a policeman or someone to help me, for more than an hour, I have.”

Smith stood looking down at her, his arms behind him, and in one gloved hand swinging the cane.

“Where do you live, then?” he asked.

“Not a hundred steps from here, kind gentleman,” she replied in the monotonous voice; “but I can’t move my left foot.  It’s only just through the gates yonder.”

“What!” snapped Smith, “on the wharf?”

“They let me have a room in the old building until it’s let,” she explained.  “Be helping a poor old woman, and God bless you.”

“Come along, then!”

Stooping, Smith placed his arm around her shoulders, and assisted her to her feet.  She groaned as if in great pain, but gripped her red bundle, and leaning heavily upon the supporting arm, hobbled off across the bridge in the direction of the wharf gates at the end of the lane.

Now at last a little action became possible, and having seen my friend push open one of the gates and assist the old woman to enter, I crept rapidly across the crazy floor, found the doorway, and, with little noise, for I wore rubber-soled shoes, stole down the stairs into what had formerly been the reception-room of the Joy-Shop, the malodorous sanctum of the old Chinaman, John Ki.

Utter darkness prevailed there, but momentarily flicking the light of a pocket-lamp upon the floor before me, I discovered the further steps that were to be negotiated, and descended into the square yard which gave access to the path skirting the creek.

The moonlight drew a sharp line of shadow along the wall of the house above me, but the yard itself was a well of darkness.  I stumbled under the rotting brick archway, and stepped gingerly upon the muddy path that I must follow.  One hand pressed to the damp wall, I worked my way cautiously along, for a false step had precipitated me into the foul water of the creek.  In this fashion and still enveloped by dense shadows, I reached the angle of the building.  Then—­at risk of being perceived, for the wharf and the river both were bathed in moonlight—­ I peered along to the left....