“You come.”
The man, whose footsteps made not the slightest sound, led the way.
“Midnight,” Jeanne whispered to herself. “Why did I say midnight?” It was always so. Ever she was desiring mystery, enchantment at unheard-of hours. Always, when the hour came she was ready to turn back.
“The magic curtain.” She started. A second dark figure was beside her. “You wished to see?”
“Y-yes.”
“You shall see. I am Hop Long Lee.
“And these are your friends? Ah, yes! Come! You will see!” His hand touched Jeanne’s. She started back. It was cold, like marble.
They followed in silence. They trod inch-thick rugs. There came no sound save the tok-tok-tok of some great, slow clock off there somewhere in the dark.
“I am not afraid,” Jeanne told herself. “I am not going to be afraid. I have seen all this before.”
Yet, when she had descended the narrow, winding stairs, when a small, Oriental rug was offered her in lieu of a chair, her limbs gave way beneath her and she dropped, limp as a rag, to the comforting softness of the rug.