Into a quiet
thoroughfare not three minutes' walk from the busy life of West
India Dock Road, Harley led the way. Before a door sandwiched in
between the entrance to a Greek tobacconist's establishment and a
boarded shop-front, he paused and turned to me.
"Whatever you see or hear," he cautioned, "express no surprise.
Above all, show no curiosity."
He rang the bell beside the door, and almost immediately it was
opened by a Negress, grossly and repellently ugly.
Harley pattered something in what sounded like Arabic, whereat
the Negress displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an
ill-lighted passage with every evidence of respect. Following
this passage to its termination, an inner door was opened, and a
burst of discordant music greeted us, together with a wave of
tobacco smoke. We entered.
Despite my friend's particular injunctions to the contrary I gave
a start of amazement.
We stood in the doorway of a fairly large apartment having a
divan round three of its sides. This divan was occupied by ten
or a dozen men of mixed nationalities--Arabs, Greeks, lascars,
and others. They smoked cigarettes for the most part and sipped
Mokha from little cups. A girl was performing a wriggling dance
upon the square carpet occupying the centre of the floor,
accompanied by a Nubian boy who twanged upon a guitar, and by
most of the assembled company, who clapped their hands to the
music or droned a low, tuneless dirge.
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