now he halted once more. He was straining his eyes down a long, narrow
passage, whose blackness was accentuated rather than relieved by curious
wavering, gossamer threads of yellow light that showed here and there
from under makeshift thresholds, from doors slightly ajar. Faint noises
came to him, a muffled, intermittent clink of coin, a low, continuous,
droning hum of voices; the sickly sweet smell of opium pricked at his
nostrils.

Jimmie Dale's face set rigidly. It was the resort, not only of the most
depraved Chinese element, but of the worst "white" thugs that made New
York their headquarters--here, in the succession of cellars, roughly
partitioned off to make a dozen rooms on either side of the passage,
dope fiends sucked at the drug, and Chinese gamblers spent the greater
part of their lives; here, murder was hatched and played too often to
its hellish end; here, the scum of the underworld sought refuge from the
police to the profit of Chang Foo; and here, somewhere, in one of these
rooms, was--the Wowzer.

The Wowzer! Jimmie Dale stole forward silently, without a sound,
swiftly--pausing only to listen for a second's space at the doors as he
passed. From this one came that clink of coin; from another that jabber
of Chinese; from still another that overpowering stench of opium--and
once, iron-nerved as he was, a cold thrill passed over him. Let this
lair of hell's wolves, so intent now on their own affairs, be once
roused, as they certainly must be roused before he could hope to finish
the Wowzer, and his chances of escape were--

He straightened suddenly, alert, tense, strained. Voices, raised in a
furious quarrel, came from a door just beyond him on the other side
of the passage, where a film of light streamed out through a cracked
panel--it was the Wowzer and Dago Jim! And drunk, both of them--and both
in a blind fury!

It happened quick then, almost instantaneously it seemed to Jimmie Dale.
He was crouched now close against the door, his eye to the crack in the
panel. There was only one figure in sight--Dago Jim--standing beside
a table on which burned a lamp, the table top littered with watches,
purses, and small chatelaine bags. The man was lurching unsteadily on
his feet, a vicious sneer of triumph on his face, waving tauntingly
an open letter and Jimmie Dale's pocket-book in his hands--waving them
presumably in the face of the Wowzer, whom, from the restrictions of the
crack, Jimmie Dale could not se