The squalid streets through which Stuart and Gaston Max
made their way looked more than normally deserted and uninviting. The
wind moaned and the rain accompanied with a dreary tattoo. Sometimes
a siren wailed out upon the river.
"We are nearly there," said Max. _"Pardieu!_ they are well concealed,
those fellows. I have not seen so much as an eyebrow."
"It would be encouraging to get a glimpse of some one!" replied Stuart.
"Ah, but bad--inartistic. It is the next door, I think ... yes. I hope
they have no special way of knocking."
Upon the door of a dark and apparently deserted shop he rapped.
Both had anticipated an interval of waiting, and both were astonished
when the door opened almost at once, revealing a blackly cavernous
interior.
"Go off! Too late! Shuttee shop!" chattered a voice out of the
darkness.
Max thrust his way resolutely in, followed by Stuart. "Shut the door,
Ah-Fang-Fu!" he said curtly, speaking with a laboured French accent.
_"Scorpion!"_
The door was closed by the invisible Chinaman, there was a sound of
soft movements and a hurricane-lantern suddenly made its appearance.
Its light revealed the interior of a nondescript untidy little shop
and revealed the presence of an old and very wrinkled Chinaman who
held the lantern. He wore a blue smock and a bowler hat and his face
possessed the absolute impassivity of an image. As he leaned over the
counter, scrutinising his visitors, Max thrust forward the golden
scorpion held in the palm of his hand.
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