he swayed along indoors, beneath a dingy lattice roof.  All points of the compass vanished; all streets remained alike,—­the same endless vista of mystic characters, red, black, and gold, on narrow suspended tablets, under which flowed the same current of pig-tailed men in blue and dirty white.  From every shop, the same yellow faces stared at him, the same elfin children caught his eye for a half-second to grin or grimace, the same shaven foreheads bent over microscopical tasks in the dark.  At first, Rudolph thought the city loud and brawling; but resolving this impression to the hideous shouts of his coolies parting the crowd, he detected, below or through their noise, from all the long cross-corridors a wide and appalling silence.  Gradually, too, small sounds relieved this:  the hammering of brass-work, the steady rattle of a loom, or the sing-song call and mellow bell of some burdened hawker, bumping past, his swinging baskets filled with a pennyworth of trifles.  But still the silence daunted Rudolph in this astounding vision, this masque of unreal life, of lost daylight, of annihilated direction, of placid turmoil and multifarious identity, made credible only by the permanence of nauseous smells.

Somewhere in the dark maze, the chairs halted, under a portal black and heavy as a Gate of Dreams.  And as by the anachronism of dreams there hung, among its tortuous symbols, the small, familiar placard—­“Fliegelman and Sons, Office.”  Heywood led the way, past two ducking Chinese clerks, into a sombre room, stone-floored, furnished stiffly with a row of carved chairs against the wall, lighted coldly by roof-windows of placuna, and a lamp smoking before some commercial god in his ebony and tinsel shrine.

“There,” he said, bringing Rudolph to an inner chamber, or dark little pent-house, where another draughty lamp flickered on a European desk.  “Here’s your cell.  I’m off—­call for you later.  Good luck!”—­Wheeling in the doorway, he tossed a book, negligently.—­“Caught!  You may as well start in, eh?—­’Cantonese Made Worse,’”

To his departing steps Rudolph listened as a prisoner, condemned, might listen to the last of all earthly visitors.  Peering through a kind of butler’s window, he saw beyond the shrine his two pallid subordinates, like mystic automatons, nodding and smoking by the doorway.  Beyond them, across a darker square like a cavern-mouth, flitted the living phantoms of the street.  It seemed a fit setting for his fears.  “I am lost,” he thought; lost among goblins, marooned in the age of barbarism, shut in a labyrinth with a Black Death at once actual and mediaeval:  he dared not think of Home, but flung his arms on the littered desk, and buried his face.

On the tin pent-roof, the rain trampled inexorably.

At last, mustering a shaky resolution, he set to work ransacking the tumbled papers.  Happily, Zimmerman had left all in confusion.  The very hopelessness of his accounts proved a relief.  Working at high tension, Rudolph wrestled through disorder, mistakes, falsification; and little by little, as the sorted piles grew and his pen traveled faster, the old absorbing love of method and dispatch—­the stay, the cordial flagon of troubled man—­gave him strength to forget.