The other door, which is little used, seems to be the entrance to the dwelling-house of the nameless foreigner.  On the left-hand door-post is nailed a small tin tablet, whereon are inscribed in the Russian character three words, which, being translated, read:  “The Brothers of Liberty.”  As no one of importance in the West India Dock Road reads the Russian characters, there is no harm done, or else some disappointment would necessarily be experienced by the passer-by to think that any one so nearly related to liberty should choose to live in that spot.  Neither would the Trafalgar Square agitator be pleased were he called upon to suppose that the siren whom he pursues with such ardor on rainy Sunday afternoons could ever take refuge behind the dingy Turkey-red curtain that hides the inner parts of the furrier’s store from vulgar gaze.

“That’s their lingo,” said Captain Cable to himself, with considerable emphasis, one dull winter afternoon when, after much study of the numbers over the shop doors, he finally came to a stand opposite the furrier’s shop.

He stepped back into the road to look up at the house, thereby imperilling his life amid the traffic.  A costermonger taking cabbages from the Borough Market to Limehouse gave the captain a little piece of his mind in the choicest terms then current in his daily intercourse with man, and received in turn winged words of such a forcible and original nature as to send him thoughtfully eastward behind his cart.

“That’s their lingo, right enough,” said the captain, examining the tin tablet a second time.  “That’s Polish, or I’m a Dutchman.”

He was, as a matter of fact, wrong, for it was Russian, but this was, nevertheless, the house he sought.  He looked at the dingy building critically, shrugged his shoulders, and, tilting forward his high-crowned hat, he scratched his head with a grimace indicative of disappointment.  It was not to come to such a house as this that he had put on what he called his “suit”; a coat and trousers of solid pilot-cloth designed to be worn as best in all climates and at all times.  It was not in order to impress such people as must undoubtedly live behind those faded red curtains that he had unpacked from the state-room locker his shore-going hat, high, and of fair, round shape, such as is only to be bought in the shadow of Limehouse steeple.

The house was uninviting.  It had a furtive, dishonest look about it.  Captain Cable saw this.  He was a man who studied weather and the outward signs of a man.  He rang the bell all the louder, and stood squarely on the threshold until the door was opened by a dirty man in a dirty apron, who looked at him in lugubrious silence.

“Name of Cable,” said the captain, turning to expectorate on the pavement, after the manner of far-sighted sailors who are about to find themselves on carpet.  The man made a slight grimace, and craned forwards with an interrogative ear held ready for a repetition.