Salon
Zhang Heng opened his eyes and found himself in a somewhat dim alley.
At the end of the road stood a small brick building hemmed in by taller buildings on both sides. It looked fairly old; judging solely by its materials and style, Zhang Heng could only barely conclude that it had been built after the nineteenth century.
He did not hurry inside. Instead, he looked around again, noticing pedestrians hurrying past the alley entrance, a cigarette vendor, and a grocery store across the street. Just as he was about to keep looking, thunder suddenly rumbled overhead, heralding a coming downpour.
So Zhang Heng did not linger any longer and finally started walking again, heading toward the small brick building.
The building was far quieter than Zhang Heng had expected. Only orange light shone through the gap beneath the door, with none of the usual clamor.
Zhang Heng knocked on the door.
A moment later, a middle-aged man who looked like a butler poked his head out. "How may I help you?"
"I received an invitation to attend a salon here." Zhang Heng paused, his gaze passing the butler-like man and landing on the living room behind him. It was completely empty, without a single guest. "Sorry, am I early?"
"No." The butler-like man smiled. "The salon has already begun, but it is not here. May I see your token of membership?"
"A token of membership?" Zhang Heng frowned slightly. He had already checked his pockets on the way here, and aside from the items he had brought himself, he had found nothing extra. But he quickly remembered something and took out Conan Doyle's fountain pen.
The butler-like man accepted the pen, put on his glasses, and examined it carefully. Then he respectfully returned it to Zhang Heng with