The squint eyes of the Chinaman surveyed the person without for a long time, so long, in fact, that Johnny began to wonder what sort of person the newcomer could be.  Wo Cheng was keen of wit.  To many he refused entrance.  But he was also a keen trader.  All manner of men and women came to him; some for a permanent change of costume, some for a night’s exchange only.  Peasants, grown suddenly and strangely rich, bearing passports and tickets for other lands, came to buy the cast-off finery of the one time nobility.  Russian, Japanese, American soldiers and officers came to Wo Cheng for a change, most of them for a single twelve hours, that they might revel in places forbidden to men in uniform.  But some came for a permanent change.  Wo Cheng never inquired why.  He asked only “Cumshaw, money,” and got it.

Was this newcomer Russian, Japanese, Chinaman or American?

The door at last opened half way, then closed quickly.  The person who stood blinking in the light was not a man, but a woman, a short and slim young woman, with the dark round face of a Japanese.

“You come buy?” solicited Wo Cheng.

For answer, the woman drew off her outer garment of some strange wool texture and trimmed with ermine.  Then, as if it were an everyday occurrence, she stepped out of her rich silk gown, and stood there in a suit of deep purple pajamas.

She then stared about the place until her eyes reached the fur garments which Johnny had recently examined.  With a laugh and a spring, lithe as a panther, she seized upon one of these, then discarding it with a fling, delved deeper until she came upon some smaller garments, which might better fit her slight form.  Comparing for a moment one of squirrel skin with one of fawn skin, she finally laid aside the latter.  Then she attacked the pile of fur trousers.  At the bottom she came upon some short bloomers, made also of fawn skin.  With another little gurgle of laughter, she stepped into these.  Next she drew the spotted fawn skin parka over her head, and stood there at last, the picture of a winsome Eskimo maid.

This done, woman-like, she plumed herself for a time before a murky mirror.  Then, turning briskly, she slipped out of the garments and back into her own.

“You wanchee cumshaw?” she asked, handing the furs to the Chinaman to be wrapped.

The Chinaman grinned.

From somewhere on her person she extracted bills, American bills.  Johnny was not surprised at that, for in these uncertain times, American money had come to be an undisputed medium of exchange.  It was always worth as much to-day as yesterday—­very often more.  The thing that did surprise Johnny was the size of the bills she left with the dealer.  She was buying those garments, there could be no question about that.  But why?  No one in this region would think of wearing them.  They were seldom seen five hundred miles north.  And this woman was a Japanese.  There were no Japanese men at Khabarask, five hundred miles north, let alone Japanese women; Johnny knew that.