“But the ghosts,” I interrupted, “the ghosts you spoke about.”
“Wait,” he said. “Listen! Sometimes men have come here who have lost the love of the spirit of the mountain and river. They have lost it because they have liked too much this London of yours, and have imbibed too deeply of that detestable immorality, which so weakens the spirit that it cannot, even if it heard the call, get away from the flesh. I tell those men that my opium will do them no good, but they take it; they take it, and dream as Englishmen would dream—with their spirits chained to their material bodies. When these depraved Chinamen awake and realise that they can never, never again, be drawn by the mighty, majestic love of the Spirit of the Mountain and River, and that they can never again revisit the home of their childhood, so bitter is their disappointment that they kill themselves—not always here, but anywhere—in their lodgings, in the river, or in the docks. Their spirits then invariably come here, where, undoubtedly, they renew their vain efforts to get back to China—to the mighty, majestic Spirit of the Mountain and River, whose love they have lost. Look in that top berth and tell me what you see there?”
“It’s empty,” I said.
“Look again,” he replied.
I did so, but still there was nothing there, only just the bare, dingy panelling.
“Well,” he asked, “what now?”
“Nothing,” I said; “absolutely nothing.”
“Go up to it and put one hand inside,” he remarked.
I did so, and sprang back with a loud cry. I had touched a face!