Sounds were muffled, lights dimmed, and the frequent hooting of
sirens from the river added another touch of weirdness to the
scene.
Even when the peculiar duties of my friend, Paul Harley, called
him away from England, the lure of this miniature Orient which I
had first explored under his guidance, often called me from my
chambers. In the house with the two doors in Wade Street,
Limehouse, I would discard the armour of respectability, and,
dressed in a manner unlikely to provoke comment in dockland,
would haunt those dreary ways sometimes from midnight until close
upon dawn. Yet, well as I knew the district and the strange and
often dangerous creatures lurking in its many burrows, I
experienced a chill partly physical and partly of apprehension
to-night; indeed, strange though it may sound, I hastened my
footsteps in order the sooner to reach the low den for which I
was bound--Malay Jack's--a spot marked plainly on the crimes-map
and which few respectable travellers would have regarded as a
haven of refuge.
But the chill of the adjacent river, and some quality of utter
desolation which seemed to emanate from the deserted wharves and
ramshackle buildings about me, were driving me thither now; for I
knew that human companionship, of a sort, and a glass of good
liquor--from a store which the Customs would have been happy to
locate--awaited me there.
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