"I would rather you had not come, but
since you are here you must go through with it." He glanced again
along the narrow passage created by the presence of the partitions,
and spoke in a voice lower yet. "You have never really trusted me,
Rita. You were wise. But you can trust me now. Good night, dear."
He walked out of the room and along the carpeted corridor to a little
apartment at the back of the house, furnished comfortably but in
execrably bad taste. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, the
flue of which had been ingeniously diverted by Sin Sin Wa so that the
smoke issued from a chimney of the adjoining premises. On the
mantelshelf, which was garishly draped, were a number of photographs
of Mrs. Sin in Spanish dancing costume.
Pyne seated himself in an armchair and lighted a cigarette. Except for
the ticking of a clock the room was silent as a padded cell. Upon a
little Moorish table beside a deep, low settee lay a complete opium-
smoking outfit.
Lolling back in the chair and crossing his legs, Sir Lucien became
lost in abstraction, and he was thus seated when, some ten minutes
later, Mrs. Sin came in.
"Ah!" she said, her harsh voice softened to a whisper. "I wondered. So
you wait to smoke with me?" Pyne slowly turned his head, staring at
her as she stood in the doorway, one hand resting on her hip and her
shapely figure boldly outlined by the kimono.
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