CHAPTER XXV

THE HOUSE OF HASHISH Along the leads from Frith Street we worked our perilous way. From the top landing of a French restaurant we had gained access, by means of a trap, to the roof of the building. Now, the busy streets of Soho were below me, and I clung dizzily to telephone standards and smoke stacks, rarely venturing to glance downward upon the cosmopolitan throng, surging, dwarfish, in the lighted depths. Sometimes the bulky figure of Inspector Weymouth would loom up grotesquely against the star-sprinkled blue, …