The police strode into the stuffy little room without ceremony, a pair
of burly fellows, fresh-complexioned, and genial as men are wont to be
who have reached a welcome resting-place on a damp and cheerless
night. They stood by the stove, warming their hands; and one of them
stooped, took up the little poker, and stirred the embers to a
brighter glow.
"Been havin' a pipe, Sin?" he asked, winking at his companion. "I can
smell something like opium!"
"No smokee opium," murmured Sin Sin Wa complacently. "Smokee
Woodbine."
"Ho, ho!" laughed the other constable. "I don't think."
"You likee tly one piecee pipee one time?" inquired the Chinaman.
"Gotchee fliend makee smokee."
The man who had poked the fire slapped his companion on the back.
"Now's your chance, Jim!" he cried. "You always said you'd like to
have a cut at it."
"H'm!" muttered the other. "A 'double' o' that fifteen over-proof
Jamaica of yours, Sin, would hit me in a tender spot tonight."
"Lum?" murmured Sin Sin blandly. "No hate got."
He resumed his seat on the tea-chest, and the raven muttered sleepily,
"Sin Sin--Sin."
"H'm!" repeated the constable.
He raised the skirt of his heavy top-coat, and from his trouser-pocket
drew out a leather purse.
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