"Good heavens!" muttered Stuart—"he is short of pipes! Pah! how the place reeks!"
Ah-Fang-Fu busied himself with a tin of opium, the pipe which he had taken from the sleeper, and another pipe—apparently the last of his stock—which lay near the lamp. Igniting the two, he crossed and handed them to Stuart and Max.
"Velly soon-lo!" he said and made a curious sign, touching his brow, his lips and his breast in a manner resembling that of a Moslem.
Max repeated the gesture and then lay back upon his elbow, raising the mouthpiece of the little pipe to his lips—but carefully avoiding contact.
Ah-Fang-Fu shuffled back to the broken cane chair, from which he had evidently arisen to admit his late visitors.
Inarticulate sounds proceeded from the bunks, breaking the sinister silence which now descended upon the den. Ah-Fang-Fu began to play Patience, constantly muttering to himself. The occasional wash of tidal water became audible, and once there came a scampering and squealing of rates from beneath the floor.
"Do you notice the sound of lapping water" whispered Stuart. "The place is evidently built upon a foundation of piles and the cellars must actually be submerged at high-tide."
"Pardieu! it is a death trap. What is this!"
A loud knocking sounded upon the street door. Ah-Fang-Fu rose and shuffled up the steps into the shop. He could be heard unbarring the outer door. Then:
"Too late! shuttee shop, shuttee shop!" sounded.