The Russian bowed gravely, and turned toward the door.

It was then that the face of the Chinaman underwent a rapid change. The
look of craftiness, treachery, and greed swept over it again. This time
the yellow man's hand unmistakably reached for the knife.

Then he appeared to remember Johnny, for his hand dropped, and he half
turned with an air of guilt.

The door closed with a little swish. The Russian was gone. With him went
the stifling air of treachery, murder and intrigue, yet it left Johnny
wondering. Why was every man's hand lifted against the sharp-chinned
Russian? Had Wo Cheng been actuated by hate, or by greed? Johnny could
not but wonder if some of Russia's former noblemen did not rest in
shallow graves beneath Wo Cheng's cellar floor. But there was little
time for speculation. In two hours the special train that Johnny wanted
to take would be on its way north.

Springing nimbly from his place of hiding, Johnny recovered his blouse,
and having secured from it certain papers, which were of the utmost
importance to him, he pinned them in a pocket of his shirt. He next
selected a pair of wolf skin trousers, a pair of corduroy trousers, one
pair of deer skin boots and two of seal skin.

"Cumshaw?" he grinned, facing Wo Cheng, as he completed his selection.

The yellow man shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it made little
difference to him in this case.

Johnny peeled a bill from his roll of United States currency and handed