"A hundred and fifty-three, York Street, Covent Garden. First floor."

"Very well," I said. "I'll meet you there at twelve o'clock. I can't
come sooner because I've got a story to write."

Twelve had just struck when I walked up York Street looking for No.
153.

The house was brilliantly lighted on the first floor. The street door
opened on to a staircase, and as I mounted it the sound of a piano and
a singing voice reached me. At the top of the stairs I caught sight of
a waiter loaded with glasses. I called to him.

"Mr. Cloyster, sir? Yessir. I'll find out whether Mr. Malim can see
you, sir."

Malim came out to me. "Hatton's not here," he said, "but come in.
There's a smoking concert going on."

He took me into the room, the windows of which I had seen from the
street.

There was a burst of cheering as we entered the room. The song was
finished, and there was a movement among the audience. "It's the
interval," said Malim.

Men surged out of the packed front room into the passage, and then into
a sort of bar parlour. Malim and I also made our way there. "That's the
fetish of the club," said Malim, pointing to a barrel standing on end;