“Reclose the door, Ah Fung,” he said softly; “and be watchful.”

As the boy replaced the stone trap, Sin Sin Wa struck a match.  Then, having the lighted match held in one hand and carrying the bag in the other, he crept along the low passage to the door of the cache.  Dropping the smouldering match-end, he opened the door and entered that secret warehouse for which so many people were seeking.

Seated in a cane chair by the oil-stove was the shrivelled figure of Sam Tuk, his bald head lolling sideways so that his big horn-rimmed spectacles resembled a figure 8.  On the counter was set a ship’s lantern.  As Sin Sin Wa came in Sam Tuk slowly raised his head.

No greetings were exchanged, but Sin Sin Wa untied the neck of his kit-bag and drew out a large wicker cage.  Thereupon:  “Hello! hello!” remarked the occupant drowsily.  “Number one p’lice chop lo!  Sin Sin Wa—­Sin Sin. . . .”

“Come, my Tling-a-Ling,” crooned Sin Sin Wa.

He opened the front of the cage and out stepped the raven onto his wrist.  Sin Sin Wa raised his arm and Tling-a-Ling settled himself contentedly upon his master’s shoulder.

Placing the empty cage on the counter.  Sin Sin Wa plunged his hand down into the bag and drew out the gleaming wooden joss.  This he set beside the cage.  With never a glance at the mummy figure of Sam Tuk, he walked around the counter, raven on shoulder, and grasping the end of the laden shelves, he pulled the last section smoothly to the left, showing that it was attached to a sliding door.  The establishments of Sin Sin Wa were as full of surprises as a Sicilian trinketbox.

The double purpose of the timbering which had been added to this old storage vault was now revealed.  It not only served to enlarge the store-room, but also shut off from view a second portion of the cellar, smaller than the first, and containing appointments which indicated that it was sometimes inhabited.

There was an oil-stove in the room, which, like that adjoining it, was evidently unprovided with any proper means of ventilation.  A paper-shaded lamp hung from the low roof.  The floor was covered with matting, and there were arm-chairs, a divan and other items of furniture, which had been removed from Mrs. Sin’s sanctum in the dismantled House of a Hundred Raptures.  In a recess a bed was placed, and as Sin Sin Wa came in Mrs. Sin was standing by the bed looking down at a woman who lay there.

Mrs. Sin wore her kimona of embroidered green silk and made a striking picture in that sordid setting.  Her black hair she had dyed a fashionable shade of red.  She glanced rapidly across her shoulder at Sin Sin Wa—­a glance of contempt with which was mingled faint distrust.

“So,” she said, in Chinese, “you have come at last.”  Sin Sin Wa smiled.  “They watched the old fox,” he replied.  “But their eyes were as the eyes of the mole.”

Still aside, contemptuously, the woman regarded him, and: