“Hurry, old fool!” came Mrs. Sin’s harsh voice from the outer room.  “In ten minutes Ah Fung will give the signal.  Is she dead yet—­the doll-woman?”

“She hate no catchee die,” murmured Sin Sin Wa, “She still vella beautiful—­tchee!”

It was at the moment that he spoke these words that Seton Pasha entered the empty building above and found the spaniel scratching at the paved floor.  So that, as Sin Sin Wa stood looking down at the wan face of the unfortunate woman who refused to die, the dog above, excited by Seton’s presence, ceased to whine and scratch and began to bark.

Faintly to the vault the sound of the high-pitched barking penetrated.

Kerry tensed his muscles and groaned impotently feeling his heart beating like a hammer in his breast.  Complete silence reigned in the outer room.  Sin Sin Wa never stirred.  Again the dog barked, then: 

“Hello, hello!” shrieked the raven shrilly.  “Number one p’lice chop, lo!  Sin Sin Wa!  Sin Sin Wa!”

There came a fierce exclamation, the sound of something being hastily overturned, of a scuffle, and: 

“Sin—­Sin—­Wa!” croaked the raven feebly.

The words ended in a screeching cry, which was followed by a sound of wildly beating wings.  Sin Sin Wa, hands tucked in sleeves, turned and walked from the inner room, closing the sliding door behind him with a movement of his shoulder.

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 Tuk 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!”

“Tchee, tchee!” 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 Tuk but Sam Tuk never stirred.