But before Johnny could move a convulsion shot through the prostrate fighter.  He was again struggling wildly.  At the same instant, Johnny heard shuffling footsteps approaching around the corner.  He was sure he did not mistake the tread of Japanese military police who were guarding that section of the city.  For a moment he studied the probabilities of the short one’s power of endurance, then, deciding it sufficient to last until the police arrived, he gripped the knife behind his back and darted toward an opposite corner where was an alley offering safety.  There were very definite reasons why Johnny did not wish to figure even as a witness in any case in Vladivostok that night.

In a doorway off the alley, he paused, listening for sounds of increased tumult.  They came quickly enough.  There was a renewed struggle, a grunt, a groan; then the scuffling ceased.

Suddenly, a figure darted down the alley.  Johnny caught a clear view of the man’s face.  The fugitive was the shorter man with broad shoulders and sharp chin; the man who the moment before had been the under dog.  He was followed closely by another runner, but not his antagonist in the street fight.  This man was a Japanese; and Johnny saw to his surprise that the Jap did not wear the uniform of the military police; in fact, not any uniform at all.

“Evidently, that stubby Russian with the queer chin is wanted for something,” Johnny muttered.  “I wonder what.  Anyway, I’ve got his knife.”

At that he tucked the weapon beneath his squirrel-lined coat and, dropping out of his corner, went cautiously on his way.

So eager was he to attend to other matters that the episode of the street fight was soon forgotten.  Dodging around this corner, then that, giving a wide berth to a group of American non-coms, dashing off a hasty salute to three Japanese officers, he at last turned up a narrow alley, and, with a sigh of relief, gave three sharp raps, then a muffled one, at a door half hidden in the gloom.

The door opened a crack, and a pair of squint eyes studied him cautiously.

“Ow!” said the yellow man, opening the door wider, and then closing it almost before Johnny could crowd himself inside.

To one coming from the outer air, the reeking atmosphere within this low ceilinged, narrow room was stifling.  There was a blend of vile odors; opium smoke, not too ancient in origin, mixed with smells of cooking, while an ill-defined but all-pervading odor permeated the place; such an odor as one finds in a tailor’s repair shop, or in the place of a dealer in second-hand clothing.

Second-hand clothing, that was Wo Cheng’s line.  But it was a rather unusual shop he kept.  Being a Chinaman, he could adapt himself to circumstances, at least within his own realm, which was clothes.  His establishment had grown up out of the grim necessity and dire pressure of war.  Not that the pressure was on his own person; far from that.  Somewhere back in China this crafty fellow was accumulating a fortune.  He was making it in this dim, taper-lighted, secret shop, opening off an alley in Vladivostok.