In an instant, she turned on him. Mike knocked on the door. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. He called a waiter. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. I’ll have to make a visit out of town.
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