And
now he halted once more. He was straining his eyes down a long, narrow
passage, whose blackness was accentuated rather than relieved by curious
wavering, gossamer threads of yellow light that showed here and there
from under makeshift thresholds, from doors slightly ajar. Faint noises
came to him, a muffled, intermittent clink of coin, a low, continuous,
droning hum of voices; the sickly sweet smell of opium pricked at his
nostrils.
Jimmie Dale's face set rigidly. It was the resort, not only of the most
depraved Chinese element, but of the worst "white" thugs that made New
York their headquarters--here, in the succession of cellars, roughly
partitioned off to make a dozen rooms on either side of the passage,
dope fiends sucked at the drug, and Chinese gamblers spent the greater
part of their lives; here, murder was hatched and played too often to
its hellish end; here, the scum of the underworld sought refuge from the
police to the profit of Chang Foo; and here, somewhere, in one of these
rooms, was--the Wowzer.
The Wowzer! Jimmie Dale stole forward silently, without a sound,
swiftly--pausing only to listen for a second's space at the doors as he
passed. From this one came that clink of coin; from another that jabber
of Chinese; from still another that overpowering stench of opium--and
once, iron-nerved as he was, a cold thrill passed over him.
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