D INTO THE TIGER'S MOUTH

Cherbourg was at that time a town of mean-looking houses and narrow
streets, ill-paved, ill-lighted, a rookery for blackbirds of every breed.
It was a great centre for smuggling and privateering, the fleet brought
many hangers-on, and the building of the great digue drew thither rough
toilers who could find, or were fitted for, no other employment.

Low-class wine-shops, and their spawn of quarrellings and sudden deaths,
abounded. Crime, in fact, attracted little attention so long as it held no
menace to the public peace. Life had been so very cheap, and blood had
flowed so freely, that the public ear had dulled to its cry.

Le Marchant led the way through the dark, ill-smelling streets to a cafe in
the outskirts.

The Cafe au Diable Boiteux looked all its name and more. It was as
ill-looking a place as ever I had seen. But here it was that the
free-traders made their headquarters, and here, said Le Marchant, we might
find men from the Islands, and possibly even from Sercq itself, and so get
news from home.

The cafe itself opened not directly off the road, but off a large courtyard
surrounded by a wall, which tended to privacy and freedom from
observation.

It was quite dark when we turned in through a narrow slit of a door, in a
larger door which was chained and bolted with a great cross-beam. There
were doubtless other outlets known to the frequenters.

Le Marchant led the way across the dark courtyard, which was lighted only
by the red-draped windows of the cafe, and opened a door out of which
poured a volume of smoke and the hot reek of spirits, and a great clash of
talk and laughter.

The room was so thick with smoke that, coming in out of the darkness, I
could only blink, though there was no lack of lamps, and the walls were
lined with mirrors in gilt frames which made the room look almost as large
as the noise that filled it, and multiplied the lights and the smoke and
the people in a bewildering fashion.

Three or four men had risen in a corner and were slowly working their way
out, with back-thrown jests to those they were leaving. Following close on
Le Marchant's heels, I stepped aside to let them pass, and in doing so
bumped against the back of a burly man who was leaning over the table in
close confidential talk with one opposite him.

"Pardon!" I said, and, looking up, saw two grim eyes scowling at me,
through the smoke, out of the looking-glass in front.

I gave bu