“Well, Sin Sin,” said Sir Lucien, dropping a match and extinguishing it under his foot, “you see I am not smoking chandu tonight.”
“No smokee,” murmured the Chinaman. “Velly good stuff.”
“Yes, the stuff is all right, Sin.”
“Number one proper,” crooned Sin Sin Wa, and relapsed into smiling silence.
“Number one p’lice,” croaked the raven sleepily. “Smartest—” He even attempted the castanets imitation, but was overcome by drowsiness.
For a while Sir Lucien stood watching the singular pair and smiling in his ironical fashion. The motive which had prompted him to leave the neighboring house and to seek the companionship of Sin Sin Wa was so obscure and belonged so peculiarly to the superdelicacies of chivalry, that already he was laughing at himself. But, nevertheless, in this house and not in its secret annex of a Hundred Raptures he designed to spend the night. Presently:
“Hon’lable p’lice patrol come ’long plenty soon,” murmured Sin Sin Wa.
“Indeed?” said Sir Lucien, glancing at his wristwatch. “The door is open above.”
Sin Sin Wa raised one yellow forefinger, without moving either hand from the knee upon which it rested, and shook it slightly to and fro.
“Allee lightee,” he murmured. “No bhobbery. Allee peaceful fellers.”