“Hello! hello!” croaked a dim voice. “Number one p’lice chop, lo! Sin Sin Wa!”
The flat note of a police whistle followed.
“Sin Sin is at home,” declared Bryce. “That’s the raven.”
“Does he take the thing about with him, then?”
“I don’t think so. But he puts it in a cupboard when he goes out, and it never talks unless it can see a light.”
Bolts were unfastened and the door was opened. Out through the moving curtain of fog shone the red glow from a stove. A grotesque silhouette appeared outlined upon the dim redness.
“You wantchee me?” crooned Sin Sin Wa.
“I do!” rapped Kerry. “I’ve called to look for opium.”
He stepped past the Chinaman into the dimly lighted room. As he did so, the cause of an apparent deformity which had characterized the outline of Sin Sin Wa became apparent. From his left shoulder the raven partly arose, moving his big wings, and:
“Smartest leg!” it shrieked in Kerry’s ear and rattled imaginary castanets.