From St. Mary's, Whitechapel, he turned south, and plunging through a maze of little streets came on foot to Limehouse at about nine o'clock. He had little difficulty in finding the “Cut,” and walking briskly down it, came to the little space where the tall, four-storeyed building was set back from the roadway. Always quick to observe detail, he had not only noticed but he recollected Melun's peculiar rap. So three times he knocked slowly, and again three times slowly, and then three times in quick succession. As on the former occasion, the door swung open at once, and the hideous face of the negro he had treated so cavalierly before peered at him from the darkness. The nigger peered eagerly about as though seeking for Melun, and when he saw that Westerham stood there alone, made as though to slam the door on him. But Westerham was too quick for him, and thrust his heavy-booted foot into the opening and laughed in the negro's face. The negro cursed him roundly and demanded what he wanted. “Let me in,” said Westerham, quietly, “and I will explain.” Most unwillingly the negro opened the door, and Westerham, entering the passage, looked the black squarely in the eyes. “I fancy that it is none of your business to inquire what I want?” he said. “I was brought here by Captain Melun and properly introduced, if such is the term you use. And my affairs at the present moment are with the gentlemen of the club. I will thank you to take me there at once.” The negro gave him an ugly look. “Did Captain Melun send you?” he asked. “Mind your own business,” retorted Westerham, sharply. “Lead the way. I shall say what I have to say to my friends. “Don't play the fool,” he added as the man still looked doubtful. “What do you take me for? A ‘tec’? If I were, do you think I should be ass enough to come here alone and ask to be shown into that crowd?” The negro grinned as much as to say that he thought him an ass in any case, but he led the way down the passage none the less. They passed through the opium den as before, and then it seemed that the negro purposely made no disturbance in order that Westerham's entrance might have a proper dramatic effect. He was right in his estimation of the confusion it would cause. If one may so term it, the parliament of scoundrels was in full session. The long trestle table was in the centre of the room, and at one end of it sat the bullet-headed man, while at the other was the young ruffian whom Westerham knew by the name of Crow. It was evidently Crow, too, who was in supreme command. The bullet-headed man rose up and stared at Westerham with starting eyes. The other men followed his gaze and leapt to their feet with cries and oaths. Crow, of the vicious eyes and the hawk-like nose and the large, brutal hands, alone seemed undismayed. The negro, having waited just sufficiently long to watch the sensation caused by Westerham's entrance, had slipped out of the club-room on silent feet.