“Will they want to come in?”
“Wantchee dlink,” replied Sin Sin Wa.
“Oh, I see. If I go out into the passage it will be all right?”
“Allee lightee.”
Even as he softly crooned the words came a heavy squelch of rubbers upon the wet pavement outside, followed by a rapping on the door. Sin Sin Wa glanced aside at Sir Lucien, and the latter immediately withdrew, partly closing the door. The Chinaman shuffled across and admitted two constables. The raven, remaining perched upon his shoulder, shrieked, “Smartest leg in Buenos Ayres,” and, fully awakened, rattled invisible castanets.
The police strode into the stuffy little room without ceremony, a pair of burly fellows, fresh-complexioned, and genial as men are wont to be who have reached a welcome resting-place on a damp and cheerless night. They stood by the stove, warming their hands; and one of them stooped, took up the little poker, and stirred the embers to a brighter glow.
“Been havin’ a pipe, Sin?” he asked, winking at his companion. “I can smell something like opium!”
“No smokee opium,” murmured Sin Sin Wa complacently. “Smokee Woodbine.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed the other constable. “I don’t think.”
“You likee tly one piecee pipee one time?” inquired the Chinaman. “Gotchee fliend makee smokee.”