As yet there seemed to be nothing peculiarly perilous about the adventure. We crossed the cobble-paved courtyard and mounted an evil-smelling stone staircase, blackened here and there by the occasional gas jets. On the third landing we halted. Anastasius put up his hand and gripped mine. “Two strong men together,” said he, “need fear nothing.” I confess my only fear was lest the confounded revolver which swung insecurely in my hip-pocket might go off of its own accord. I did not mention this to my companion. He raised his hat, wiped his brow, and rang the bell. The door opened about six inches, and a man's dark-moustachioed face appeared. “_Vous desirez, Messieurs_?” As I had not the remotest idea what we desired, I let Anastasius be spokesman. “Here is an English milord,” said Anastasius boldly, “who would like to be admitted for the evening to the privileges of the Club.” “Enter, gentlemen,” said the man, who appeared to be the porter. We found ourselves in a small vestibule. In front of us was a large door, on the right a small one, both closed. At a table by the large door sat a dirty, out-of-elbows raven of a man reading a newspaper. The latter looked up and addressed me. “You wish to enter the Club, Monsieur?” I had no particular longing to do so, but I politely answered that such was my desire. “If you will give your visiting-card, I will submit it to the Secretariat.” I produced my card; Anastasius thrust a pencil into my hand. “Write my name on it, too.” I obeyed. The raven sent the porter with the card into the room on the right, and resumed the perusal of his soiled newspaper. I looked at Anastasius. The little man was quivering with excitement. The porter returned after a few minutes with a couple of pink oval cards which he handed to each of us. I glanced at mine. On it was inscribed: _Cercle Africain d'Alger. Carte de Member Honoraire. Une soiree_. And then there was a line for the honorary member's signature. The raven man dipped a pen in the ink-pot in front of him and handed it to me. “Will you sign, Messieurs?” We executed this formality; he retained the cards, and opening the great door, said: “_Entrez, Messieurs_!” The door closed behind us. It was simply a _tripot_, or gambling-den. And all this solemn farce of Secretariats and _cartes d'entree_ to obtain admission! It is curious how the bureaucratic instinct is ingrained in the French character. It was a large, ill-ventilated room, blue with cigarette and cigar smoke. Some thirty men were sitting or standing around a baccarat table in the centre, and two or three groups hung around _ecarte_ tables in the corners. A personage who looked like a slightly more prosperous brother of the raven outside and wore a dinner-jacket, promenaded the room with the air of one in authority. He scrutinised us carefully from a distance; then advanced and greeted us politely.