Resting against the empty shelves, he stood and surveyed the scene in the vault.
Mrs. Sin, who had been kneeling beside the wicker cage, which was upset, was in the act of standing upright. At her feet, and not far from the motionless form of old Sam Tûk who sat like a dummy figure in his chair before the stove, lay a palpitating mass of black feathers. Other detached feathers were sprinkled about the floor. Feebly the raven’s wings beat the ground once, twice—and were still.
Sin Sin Wa uttered one sibilant word, withdrew his hands from his sleeves, and, stepping around the end of the counter, dropped upon his knees beside the raven. He touched it with long yellow fingers, then raised it and stared into the solitary eye, now glazed and sightless as its fellow. The smile had gone from the face of Sin Sin Wa.
“My Tling-a-Ling!” he moaned in his native mandarin tongue. “Speak to me, my little black friend!”
A bead of blood, like a ruby, dropped from the raven’s beak. Sin Sin Wa bowed his head and knelt awhile in silence; then, standing up, he reverently laid the poor bedraggled body upon a chest. He turned and looked at his wife.
Hands on hips, she confronted him, breathing rapidly, and her glance of contempt swept him up and down.
“I’ve often threatened to do it,” she said in English. “Now I’ve done it. They’re on the wharf. We’re trapped—thanks to that black, squalling horror!”
“Tchée, tchée!” hissed Sin Sin Wa.
His gleaming eye fixed upon the woman unblinkingly, he began very deliberately to roll up his loose sleeves. She watched him, contempt in her glance, but her expression changed subtly, and her dark eyes grew narrowed. She looked rapidly towards Sam Tûk but Sam Tûk never stirred.
“Old fool!” she cried at Sin Sin Wa. “What are you doing?”