There were street lamps every hundred feet or so, revealing a succession of large, brick government buildings and warehouses, all with their windows dark. As we approached the river, I saw what had to be the Birds of Paradise club. It was the only building in the entire neighborhood with all the downstairs windows lit. The place was unlike any other I had seen in the city, comprising an acre of ancient trees and plantings enclosed behind a white picket fence. Built in the early colonial times, the house was a sprawling, red-painted, three-story wooden structure, with two side wings, wrapping porches, and dormer windows sticking out from under the peaked roof. I told the hansom driver to stop at the carriage park in front. Another coach was already there. As I watched, two men in evening clothes came out of the house and made their way slowly down the front path. One of them was obviously drunk and barely able to stand up. His compatriot assisted him into their coach. “Should I wait?”
