Stooping forward and bending his knees, Sir Lucien made his way along the passage, the Chinaman following.  It was of considerable length, and terminated before a strong door bearing a massive lock.  Sin Sin Wa reached over the stooping figure of Sir Lucien and unfastened the lock.  The two emerged in a kind of dug-out.  Part of it had evidently been in existence before the ingenious Sin Sin Wa had exercised his skill upon it, and was of solid brickwork and stone-paved; palpably a storage vault.  But it had been altered to suit the Chinaman’s purpose, and one end—­that in which the passage came out—­was timbered.  It contained a long counter and many shelves; also a large oil-stove and a number of pots, pans, and queer-looking jars.  On the counter stood a ship’s lantern.  The shelves were laden with packages and bottles.  Behind the counter sat a venerable and perfectly bald Chinaman.  The only trace of hair upon his countenance grew on the shrunken upper lip —­mere wisps of white down.  His skin was shrivelled like that of a preserved fig, and he wore big horn-rimmed spectacles.  He never once exhibited the slightest evidence of life, and his head and face, and the horn-rimmed spectacles, might quite easily have passed for those of an unwrapped mummy.  This was Sam Tuk.

Bending over a box upon which rested a canvas-bound package was a burly seaman engaged in unknotting the twine with which the canvas was kept in place.  As Sin Sin Wa and Sir Lucien came in he looked up, revealing a red-bearded, ugly face, very puffy under the eyes.

“Wotcher, Sin Sin!” he said gruffly.  “Who’s your long pal?”

“Friend,” murmured Sin Sin Wa complacently.  “You gotchee pukka stuff thisee time, George?”

“I allus brings the pukka stuff!” roared the seaman, ceasing to fumble with the knots and glaring at Sin Sin Wa.  “Wotcher mean—­pukka stuff?”

“Gotchee no use for bran,” murmured Sin Sin Wa.  “Gotchee no use for tin-tack.  Gotchee no use for glue.”

“Bran!” roared the man, his glance and pose very menacing.  “Tin-tacks and glue!  Who the flamin’ ’ell ever tried to sell you glue?”

“Me only wantchee lemindee you,” said Sin Sin Wa.  “No pidgin.”

“George” glared for a moment, breathing heavily; then he stooped and resumed his task, Sin Sin Wa and Sir Lucien watching him in silence.  A sound of lapping water was faintly audible.

Opening the canvas wrappings, the man began to take out and place upon the counter a number of reddish balls of “leaf” opium, varying in weight from about eight ounces to a pound or more.

“H’m!” murmured Sin Sin Wa.  “Smyrna stuff.”

From a pocket of his pea-jacket he drew a long bodkin, and taking up one of the largest balls he thrust the bodkin in and then withdrew it, the steel stained a coffee color.  Sin Sin Wa smelled and tasted the substance adhering to the bodkin, weighed the ball reflectively in his yellow palm, and then set it aside.  He took up a second, whereupon: