He knew the place well. It was the
heart and centre, the core of its own particular and vicious section of
the underworld. Ahead of him, flanking the two-story, tumble-down
building that was the Spider's home, was a narrow alleyway, then a small
and filthy courtyard, and, its rear upon this and fronting the street,
the alleyway again at the side, the "The Yellow Lantern" that he had
been careful to avoid a dance hall of the lowest type. The Spider had
not unshrewdly chosen his location; nor the proprietor of "The Yellow
Lantern" his--their clientele was a common one, and their interests did
not clash!
From the direction of "The Yellow Lantern" came a hilarious uproar,
subdued somewhat by the distance, out of which arose the strident notes
of a tinny piano beating blatantly the measure of a turkey trot. There
was no other sound. There were lights from the rear of the dance hall,
enough, Jimmie Dale knew, to throw a murky illumination over the front
windows of the antique shop; but there were no lights showing from the
Spider's dwelling itself, that loomed black on the side of the alleyway
at his right hand--the old couple that kept the Spider's house were
doubtless long since in bed in their own particular apartments upstairs.
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