The speaker was my old friend &ldquo;Steeley&rdquo; Delaroy. He was leaning over the rail of the dirtiest steamer on which it has ever been my misfortune to travel, gazing with speculative but slightly amused eyes at the remarkable collection of houses that lay beyond the squalid waterfront of the harbour we had just entered. But there was a peculiar inflection in his voice, a sort of fatalism in the way he said the words, that made me glance quickly at his face before resuming my inspection of our destination.<br />&ldquo;Yes, here it is,&rdquo; I agreed, for want of something better to say. It seemed hardly worth mentioning that, I suspected strongly that his thoughts were running on the same lines as my own.