There was no light in the corridor.  Leaving his door ajar, he tiptoed cautiously along toward the cave.  Assuring himself once again that the pistol lay in his pocket, he fumbled for the lever which opened the door, found it, depressed it, and stepped quietly forward in his slippered feet.

The unmistakable odor of the place assailed his nostrils.  All was in darkness, and absolute silence prevailed.  He had a rough idea of the positions of the various little tables, and he stepped cautiously in order to skirt them; but evidently he had made a miscalculation.  Something caught his foot, and with a muffled thud he sprawled upon the floor, barely missing one of the tables which he had been at such pains to avoid.

Trembling like a man with an ague, he lay there, breathing in short, staccato breaths, and clutching the pistol in his pocket.  Certainly he had made no great noise, but...

Nothing stirred.

Soames summoned up courage to rise and to approach again the door of Block A. Without further mishap he reached it, opened it, and entered the blackness of the corridor.  He could make no mistake in regard to the door, for it was the end one.  He stole quietly along, his fingers touching the matting, until he came in contact with the corner angle; then, feeling along from the wall until he touched the strip of bamboo which marked the end of the door, he probed about gently with the key; for he knew to within an inch or so where the keyhole was situated.

Ah! he had it!  His hand trembling slightly, he sought to insert the key in the lock.  It defied his efforts.  He felt it gently with the fingers of his left hand, thinking that he might have been endeavoring to insert the key with the irregular edge downward, and not uppermost; but no—­such was not the case.

Again he tried, and with no better result.  His nerves were threatening to overcome him, now; he had not counted upon any such hitch as this:  but fear sharpened his wits.  He recollected the fall which he had sustained, and how he had been precipitated upon the polished floor, outside.

Could he have mistaken his direction?  Was it not possible that owing to his momentary panic, he had arisen, facing not the door at the foot of the steps, as he had supposed, but that by which a moment earlier he had entered the cave of the golden dragon?

Desperation was with him now; he was gone too far to draw back.  Trailing his fingers along the matting covering of the wall, he retraced his steps, came to the open door, and reentered the apartment of the dragon.  He complimented himself, fearfully, upon his own address, for he was inspired with an idea whereby he might determine his position.  Picking his way among the little tables and the silken ottomans, he groped about with his hands in the impenetrable darkness for the pedestal supporting the dragon.  At last his fingers touched the ivory.  He slid them downward, feeling for the great vase of poppies which always stood before the golden image....