When
this had proceeded for about half a minute or more:
"All right, all right!" came a shaky voice from within. "I'm
coming."
Harley released the knocker, and, turning to me:
"Ma Lorenzo," he whispered. "Don't make any mistakes."
Indeed, even as he warned me, heralded by a creaking of bolts and
the rattling of a chain, the door was opened by a fat, shapeless,
half-caste woman of indefinite age; in whose dark eyes, now
sunken in bloated cheeks, in whose full though drooping lips, and
even in the whole overlaid contour of whose face and figure it
was possible to recognize the traces of former beauty. This was
Ma Lorenzo, who for many years had lived at that address with old
Kwen Lung, of whom strange stories were told in Chinatown.
As Bill Jones, A.B., my friend, Paul Harley, was well known to Ma
Lorenzo as he was well known to many others in that strange
colony which clusters round the London docks. I sometimes
enjoyed the privilege of accompanying my friend on a tour of
investigation through the weird resorts which abound in that
neighbourhood, and, indeed, we had been returning from one of
these Baghdad nights when our present adventure had been thrust
upon us. Assuming a wild and boisterous manner which he had at
command:
"'Urry up, Ma!" said Harley, entering without ceremony; "I want
to introduce my pal Jim 'ere to old Kwen Lung, and make it all
right for him before I sail.
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