“Did Captain Melun send you?” he asked.
“Mind your own business,” retorted Westerham, sharply. “Lead the way. I shall say what I have to say to my friends.
“Don't play the fool,” he added as the man still looked doubtful. “What do you take me for? A ‘tec’? If I were, do you think I should be ass enough to come here alone and ask to be shown into that crowd?”
The negro grinned as much as to say that he thought him an ass in any case, but he led the way down the passage none the less.
They passed through the opium den as before, and then it seemed that the negro purposely made no disturbance in order that Westerham's entrance might have a proper dramatic effect.
He was right in his estimation of the confusion it would cause.
If one may so term it, the parliament of scoundrels was in full session. The long trestle table was in the centre of the room, and at one end of it sat the bullet-headed man, while at the other was the young ruffian whom Westerham knew by the name of Crow.
It was evidently Crow, too, who was in supreme command.
The bullet-headed man rose up and stared at Westerham with starting eyes. The other men followed his gaze and leapt to their feet with cries and oaths.