A short exclamation came from the detective in the lane. He could be heard walking swiftly away in the direction of the disturbance. And ere he had gone six paces, Sin Sin Wa was bending like an inverted U over the wall and was lowering his precious bag to the ground. Like a cat he sprang across and dropped noiselessly beside it. “Hello! Who’s there?” cried the detective, standing by the wall of the house which Sin Sin Wa had selected as a target. Sin Sin Wa, bag in hand, trotted, soft of foot, across the lane and into the shadow of the dock-building. By the time that the C.I.D. man had decided to climb up and investigate the mysterious noise, Sin Sin Wa was on the other side of the canal and rapping gently upon the door of Sam Tûk’s hairdressing establishment. The door was opened so quickly as to suggest that someone had been posted there for the purpose. Sin Sin Wa entered and the door was closed again. “Light, Ah Fung,” he said in Chinese. “What news?” The boy who had admitted him took a lamp from under a sort of rough counter and turned to Sin Sin Wa. “George came with the boat, master, but I signalled to him that the red policeman and the agent who has hired the end room were watching.” “They are gone?” “They gather men at the head depot and are searching house from house. She who sleeps below awoke and cried out. They heard her cry.” “George waits?” “He waits, master. He will wait long if the gain is great.” “Good.” Sin Sin Wa shuffled across to the cellar stairs, followed by Ah Fung with the lamp. He descended, and, brushing away the carefully spread coal dust, inserted the piece of bent wire into the crevice and raised the secret trap. Bearing his bag upon his shoulder he went down into the tunnel. “Reclose the door, Ah Fung,” he said softly; “and be watchful.” As the boy replaced the stone trap, Sin Sin Wa struck a match. Then, having the lighted match held in one hand and carrying the bag in the other, he crept along the low passage to the door of the cache. Dropping the smouldering match-end, he opened the door and entered that secret warehouse for which so many people were seeking. Seated in a cane chair by the oil-stove was the shrivelled figure of Sam Tûk, his bald head lolling sideways so that his big horn-rimmed spectacles resembled a figure 8. On the counter was set a ship’s lantern. As Sin Sin Wa came in Sam Tûk slowly raised his head. No greetings were exchanged, but Sin Sin Wa untied the neck of his kit-bag and drew out a large wicker cage. Thereupon: “Hello! hello!” remarked the occupant drowsily. “Number one p’lice chop lo! Sin Sin Wa—Sin Sin....” “Come, my Tling-a-Ling,” crooned Sin Sin Wa. He opened the front of the cage and out stepped the raven onto his wrist. Sin Sin Wa raised his arm and Tling-a-Ling settled himself contentedly upon his master’s shoulder.