D r. X's assistant swung the door open and nodded insolently. 
Hackworth swung his top hat into place and stepped out of the Flea Circus, 
blinking at the reek of China: smoky like the dregs of a hundred million pots 
of lapsang souchong, mingled with the sweet earthy smell of pork fat and the 
brimstony tang of plucked chickens and hot garlic. He felt his way across the 
cobbles with the tip of his walking-stick until his eyes began to adjust. He 
was now poorer by several thousand ucus. A sizable investment, but the best a 
father could make.