Stepping forward I knock smartly on the red door, which is quickly opened by a diminutive Chinese woman who, to my knowledge, has never uttered a word of English. I understand her to be a relative of the proprietor, rather than his wife. As soon as Withers follows me over the threshold the door is bolted behind us. Once again I stand in the darkness, but this time the stairs in front of me climb steeply upward, and are of worn and splintered wood. Mr. Chow Li’s property had, in an earlier incarnation, been used to store and distribute grain. All that remains of such industry is the thick coating of dust which clings to everything, including the stale air in the stairwell. The ground floor seems abandoned, and the first, from what I can discern, contains the living quarters for the owner and what family he has. Visitors are compelled to climb to the second floor, where the stairs open into a long, low-ceilinged room which spans the length and breadth of the building. A powerful fug of smoke, a singular smell, sweet and sickly, and the odor of warm bodies assails me as I enter the fetid space. On either side, the room is lined with low beds against the wall, some with curtains drawn about them, others open to view, exposing the slumbering occupants. There is little light, save for two lanterns hanging in the center of the room. Beneath these sits Mr. Chow Li, cross-legged, his walnut face scrunched in concentration as he prepares another pipe. He is sitting amid the paraphernalia of his trade—small dishes and pans, a little stove, and a selection of plain pipes set about him. His assistant, another Chinese woman of indeterminate age, wordlessly hands him this package and that spoon, seeming to know exactly what it is the old man requires at the precise moment he needs it. Becoming aware of the presence of his visitors, he looks up from his work and his features are transformed by a grin of convincing sincerity.

“Ah! Lovely Lady!” He springs lightly to his brocade-slippered feet and hurries forward to greet us. “Pleasure always to have Lovely Lady come Chow Li’s home,” he gushes. I hear a gruff snort of derision behind me from Withers, who does nothing to conceal his contempt for the opium master.

“I received your message.” I have no desire to enter into pleasantries or small talk with the man, today of all days. “Please take me to my brother.”

“Ah, Mr. Freddie not good this night. I told him ‘Too much wine! Too much wine!’ But he say, ‘Oh, no matter, Mr. Chow Li,’ and he say he bury his father today. ‘Be kind to me,’ he say. Ah! Very sad. So Mr. Chow Li give him what he want.”

“And your ‘kindness’ has made him ill,” I say curtly. A kindness that can be bought easily enough for the right amount of money.