looked about him. The room was unfurnished save for a littered table
and some chairs, and a gaudy picture of the Virgin that hung on the
wall. On each side of it was a sconce, in which a slovenly candle
guttered. A woman was perched on a corner of the table, a heavy shawl
over her head. Under it the dark face, propped in the fork of her
hand, glowed sullenly, and her bare, white arm was like a menacing
thing. Dawson bowed to her with an instinct of politeness. In a chair
near her a grossly fat man was huddled, scowling heavily under thick,
fair brows, while the other man, he who had opened the door, stood
smiling.

The woman laughed softly as Dawson ducked to her, scanning him with
an amusement that he felt as ignominy. But she pointed to the image
dangling in his hand.

"What is that?" she asked.

Dawson laid it on the floor carefully. "It's a curio," he explained.
"I was fetching it for a lady. An idol, you know."

The fat man burst into a hoarse laugh, and the other man spoke to
Dawson.

"An' you?" he queried. "What you doing 'ere, so late an' so wet?"

"I was trying to take a short cut to the landing-stage," Dawson
replied. "Like a silly fool, I thought I could find my way through
here. But I got lost somehow."

The fat man laughed again.