Leaving the dog at Leman Street then, and learning that there was no news of the missing Chief Inspector, Seton had set out once more.  He had been informed of the mysterious signals flashed from side to side of the Lower Pool, and was hourly expecting a report to the effect that Sin Sin Wa had been apprehended in the act of escaping.  That Sin Sin Wa had dropped into the turgid tide from his underground hiding-place, and pushing his property—­which was floatable—­before him, encased in a waterproof bag, had swum out and clung to the stern of George Martin’s boat as it passed close to the empty wharf, neither Seton Pasha nor any other man knew—­except George Martin and Sin Sin Wa.

At a suitably dark spot the Chinaman had boarded the little craft, not without difficulty, for his wounded shoulder pained him, and had changed his sodden attire for a dry outfit which awaited him in the locker at the stern of the skiff.  The cunning of the Chinese has the simplicity of true genius.

Not two paces had Seton taken on to the mystifying wharf when: 

“Sam Tuk barber!  Entrance in cellar!” rapped a ghostly, muffled voice from beneath his feet.  “Sam Tuk barber!  Entrance in cellar!”

Seton Pasha stood still, temporarily bereft of speech.  Then, “Kerry!” he cried.  “Kerry!  Where are you?”

But apparently his voice failed to reach the invisible speaker, for: 

“Sam Tuk barber!  Entrance in cellar!” repeated the voice.

Seton Pasha wasted no more time.  He ran out into the narrow street.  A man was on duty there.

“Call assistance!” ordered Seton briskly, “Send four men to join me at the barber’s shop called Sam Tuk’s!  You know it?”

“Yes, sir; I searched it with Chief Inspector Kerry.”

The note of a police whistle followed.

Ten minutes later the secret of Sam Tuk’s cellar was unmasked.  The place was empty, and the subterranean door locked; but it succumbed to the persistent attacks of axe and crowbar, and Seton Pasha was the first of the party to enter the vault.  It was laden with chemical fumes. . . .

He found there an aged Chinaman, dead, seated by a stove in which the fire had burned very low.  Sprawling across the old man’s knees was the body of a raven.  Lying at his feet was a woman, lithe, contorted, the face half hidden in masses of bright red hair.

“End case near the door!” rapped the voice of Kerry.  “Slides to the left!”

Seton Pasha vaulted over the counter, drew the shelves aside, and entered the inner room.

By the dim light of a lantern burning upon a moorish coffee-table he discerned an untidy bed, upon which a second woman lay, pallid.

“God!” he muttered; “this place is a morgue!”

“It certainly isn’t healthy!” said an irritable voice from the floor.  “But I think I might survive it if you could spare a second to untie me.”

Kerry’s extensive practice in chewing and the enormous development of his maxillary muscles had stood him in good stead.  His keen, strong teeth had bitten through the extemporized gag, and as a result the tension of the handkerchief which had held it in place had become relaxed, enabling him to rid himself of it and to spit out the fragments of filthy-tasting wood which the biting operation had left in his mouth.