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 but one glance, and felt as if I had run my head against a wall or had received a blow over the heart.

For those fierce black eyes were full of menace.

They had leaped to mine as blade leaps to blade, touches lightly, slides along, and holds your own with the compelling pressure that presages assault.

They were like thunderclouds charged with blasting lightnings.