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He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see

if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he

reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt

factories. In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and

gave a peculiar knock.

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain

being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without

saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself

into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a

tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind

which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside

and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a

third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and

distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged

round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them,

making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered with

ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and

stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were

crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters

and showing their white teeth as they chattered.