There is a night life in Limehouse, as he had learned, but it is
a mole life, a subterranean life, of which no sign appears above
ground after a certain hour. Nevertheless, as he entered the
area which harbours those strange, hidden resorts the rumour of
which has served to create the glamour of Chinatown, he found
himself to be thinking of the great influence said to be wielded
by Huang Chow, and wondering if unseen spies watched his
movements.
Lala was Oriental, and now, alone in the night, distrust leapt
into being within him. He had been attracted by her and had
pitied her. He told himself now that this was because of her
dark beauty and the essentially feminine appeal which she made.
She was perhaps a vampire of the most dangerous sort, one who
lured men to strange deaths for some sinister object beyond reach
of a Western imagination.
He found himself doubting the success of those tactics upon
which, earlier in the day, he had congratulated himself. Perhaps
beneath the guise of Hampden, who bought antique furniture on
commission, those cunning old eyes beneath the horn-rimmed
spectacles had perceived the detective hidden, or at least had
marked subterfuge.
While he could not count Lala a conquest--for he had not even
attempted to make love to her--the ease with which he had
developed the acquaintance now, afforded matter for suspicion.
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