flowed so freely, that the public ear had dulled to its cry.

Le Marchant led the way through the dark, ill-smelling streets to a café in
the outskirts.

The Café au Diable Boiteux looked all its name and more. It was as
ill-looking a place as ever I had seen. But here it was that the
free-traders made their headquarters, and here, said Le Marchant, we might
find men from the Islands, and possibly even from Sercq itself, and so get
news from home.

The café itself opened not directly off the road, but off a large courtyard
surrounded by a wall, which tended to privacy and freedom from
observation.

It was quite dark when we turned in through a narrow slit of a door, in a
larger door which was chained and bolted with a great cross-beam. There
were doubtless other outlets known to the frequenters.

Le Marchant led the way across the dark courtyard, which was lighted only
by the red-draped windows of the café, and opened a door out of which
poured a volume of smoke and the hot reek of spirits, and a great clash of
talk and laughter.

The room was so thick with smoke that, coming in out of the darkness, I
could only blink, though there was no lack of lamps, and the walls were
lined with mirrors in gilt frames which made the room look almost as large
as the noise that filled it, and multiplied the lights and the smoke and
the people in a bewildering fashion.