he house of the slave-dealer. Could it be?
With the fading of the crescent of Islam I had thought such things to
have passed.

But if it were so?

At the mere thought of a girl so deliciously beautiful in the brutal
power of slavers, I found myself grinding my teeth--closing my eyes in
a futile attempt to blot out the pictures called up.

Then, at such times, I would find myself discrediting her story.
Again, I would find myself wondering, vaguely, why such problems
persistently haunted my mind. But, always, my heart had an answer.
And I was a medical man, who sought to build up a family
practice!--who, in short, a very little time ago, had thought himself
past the hot follies of youth and entered upon that staid phase of life
wherein the daily problems of the medical profession hold absolute sway
and such seductive follies as dark eyes and red lips find--no
place--are excluded!

But it is foreign from the purpose of this plain record to enlist
sympathy for the recorder. The topic upon which, here, I have ventured
to touch was one fascinating enough to me; I cannot hope that it holds
equal charm for any other. Let us return to that which it is my duty
to narrate and let us forget my brief digression.

It is a fact, singular, but true, that few Londoners know London.
Under the guidance of my friend, Nayland Smith, I had learned, since
his return from Burma, how there are haunts in the very heart of the
metropolis whose existence is unsuspected by all but the few; places
unknown even to the ubiquitous copy-hunting pressman.

Into a quiet thoroughfare not two minutes' walk from the pulsing life
of Leicester Square, Smith led the way. Before a door sandwiched in
between two dingy shop-fronts he paused and turned to me.

"Whatever you see or hear," he cautioned, "express no surprise."

A cab had dropped us at the corner. We both wore dark suits and fez
caps with black silk tassels. My complexion had been artificially
reduced to a shade resembling the deep tan of my friend's. He rang the
bell beside the door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a negro woman--gross, hideously
ugly.

Smith uttered something in voluble Arabic. As a linguist his
attainments were a constant source of surprise. The jargons of the
East, Far and Near, he spoke as his mother tongue. The woman
immediately displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an
ill-lighted passage, with every evidence of profound respect.
Following