Pushing the proprietor gently to one side, Johnny made his way toward the back of the room.  Scrutinizing the hangers as he went, and giving them an occasional fling here and there, as some garment caught his eye, he came presently upon a solid square yard of fur.  With a grunt of satisfaction, he dragged one of the garments from its place and held it before the flickering yellow taper.

The thing was shaped like a middy-blouse, only a little longer and it had a hood attached.  It was made of the gray squirrel skins of Siberia, and was trimmed with wolf’s skin.  As Johnny held it against his body, it reached to his knees.  It was, in fact, a parka, such as is worn by the Eskimos of Alaska and the Chukches, aborigines of North Siberia.

One by one, Johnny dragged similar garments from their hangers.  Coming at last upon one made of the brown summer skins of reindeer, and trimmed with wolverine, he seemed satisfied, for, tossing the others into a pile, he had drawn off his blouse and was about to throw the parka over his head, when something fell with a jangling rattle to the floor.

“O-o-ee!” grunted the Chinaman, as he stared at the thing.  It was the knife which had belonged to the Russian of the broad shoulders and sharp chin.  As Johnny’s eyes fell upon it now, he realized that it was an altogether unusual weapon.  The blade was of blue steel, and from its ring it appeared to be exceptionally well tempered.  The handle was of strangely carved ivory.

Quickly thrusting the knife beneath his belt, Johnny again took up the parka.  This time, as he drew the garment down over his head, he appeared to experience considerable difficulty in getting his left arm into the sleeve.  This task accomplished, he stretched himself this way and that.  He smoothed down the fur thoughtfully, pulled the hood about his ears, and back again, twisted himself about to test the fit, then, with a sigh of content, turned to examine a pile of fur trousers.

At that instant there came a low rap at the door—­three raps, to be accurate—­then a muffled thud.

Johnny started.  Someone wanted to enter.  He was not exactly in a condition to be seen, especially if the person should prove to be an American officer.  His fur parka, topping those khaki trousers and puttees of his, would seem at least to tell a tale, and might complicate matters considerably.  Quickly seizing his blouse, he crowded his way far back into the depths of a furry mass of long coats.

“Wo Cheng!” he whispered, “my wanchee you keep mouth shut.  Allatime shut!”

“O-o-ee,” grunted the Chinaman.

The next moment he had opened the door a crack.