“Hi!  Guy Fawkes!” rapped Kerry, striding forward.  “Who’s been letting off fire-works?”

Sam Tuk nodded senilely, but spoke not a word.

Kerry stooped and stared into the heart of the fire.  A dense coat of white ash lay upon the embers.  He grasped the shoulder of the aged Chinaman, and pushed him back so that he could look into the bleared eyes behind the owlish spectacles.

“Been cleaning up the ‘evidence,’ eh?” he shouted.  “This joint stinks of opium and a score of other dopes.  Where are the gang?” He shook the yielding, ancient frame.  “Where’s the smart with one eye?”

But Sam Tuk merely nodded, and as Kerry released his hold sank forward again, nodding incessantly.

“H’m, you’re a hard case,” said the Chief Inspector.  “A couple of witnesses like you and the jury would retire to Bedlam!”

He stood glaring fiercely at the limp frame of the old Chinaman, and as he glared his expression changed.  Lying on the dirty floor not a yard from Sam Tuk’s feet was a ball of leaf opium!

“Ha!” exclaimed Kerry, and he stooped to pick it up.

As he did so, with a lightning movement of which the most astute observer could never have supposed him capable, Sam Tuk whipped a loaded rubber tube from his sleeve and struck Kerry a shrewd blow across the back of the skull.

The Chief Inspector, without word or cry, collapsed upon his knees, and then fell gently forward—­forward—­and toppled face downwards before his assailant.  His bowler fell off and rolled across the dirty floor.

Sam Tuk sank deeply into his chair, and his toothless jaws worked convulsively.  The skinny hand which clutched the piece of tubing twitched and shook, so that the primitive deadly weapon fell from its wielder’s grasp.

Silently, that set of empty shelves nearest to the inner wall of the vault slid open, and Sin Sin Wa came out.  He, too, carried his hands tucked in his sleeves, and his yellow, pock-marked face wore its eternal smile.

“Well done,” he crooned softly in Chinese.  “Well done, bald father of wisdom.  The dogs draw near, but the old fox sleeps not.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

SETON PASHA REPORTS

At about the time that the fearless Chief Inspector was entering the establishment of Sam Tuk Seton Pasha was reporting to Lord Wrexborough in Whitehall.  His nautical disguise had served its purpose, and he had now finally abandoned it, recognizing that he had to deal with a criminal of genius to whom disguise merely afforded matter for amusement.

In his proper person, as Greville Seton, he afforded a marked contrast to that John Smiles, seaman, who had sat in a top room in Limehouse with Chief Inspector Kerry.  And although he had to report failure, the grim, bronzed face and bright grey eyes must have inspired in the heart of any thoughtful observer confidence in ultimate success.  Lord Wrexborough, silver-haired, florid and dignified, sat before a vast table laden with neatly arranged dispatch-boxes, books, documents tied with red tape, and the other impressive impedimenta which characterize the table of a Secretary of State.  Quentin Gray, unable to conceal his condition of nervous excitement, stared from a window down into Whitehall.