THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
if a bit hazily. Malay Street, where the Scarlet Woman plied her ancient business! Malay Street! God! and they had locked her up in one of those hell-holes—white men! The street with the big numbers painted on Chinese lanterns!—Malay Street! And only a short time before they had all driven through it on a lark!
He broke into a run, zigzagging in and out of the crowds, up this street and down that, through the quaint Chinese quarters, until he finally came out into the sinister thoroughfare.
It required but a moment or two to locate the house. If Camden had lied he would go back and kill him. He rushed into the hallway. The front doors are rarely locked in this street. A gross-bodied woman opposed him with a snarl, demanding what he meant by such conduct. He caught her by the shoulders and swung her around brutally.
"Listen to me! What room is she in, the young woman they forced in here about ten days ago? No lies, or I'll break your neck. Give me the room!" He shook her violently. Her head wabbled like a manikin's.
"Twelve!" The word shot out of her mouth in a kind of gurgle.
William flung her against the wall and sprang up the stairs. The air was vile with the smell of cheap whisky and cigarettes. From the parlor came the pan-like tinkle of a mechanical piano. He reached the upper floor and stooped before the first door. It was number ten. Two doors
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