“Ah!” she breathed. A spell seemed to take possession of her. She wished to turn about and go away from this place of mellow lights and silence; yet some mysterious power held her.
Before her, seeming alive in that uncertain light, a fat Buddha sat and smiled. Beyond were all manner of curious objects, trumpets three yards long, miniature pagodas, images of gold and bronze, a great bell suspended from a frame.
“This,” she whispered, “is a Chinese Temple. Every part of it, twenty-eight thousand bits of wood, was made in China.”
As if taking up the story, the low melodious voice of a mandarin talking to three ladies in black said:
“Everything you see here came from the temples of China. Everything. They are all very old and quite priceless.”
Jeanne moved toward him. “This,” he went on, appearing to see her out of the corner of his eye, “is a prayer wheel. Inside this wheel, which is, you might say, like a brass drum, are bits of paper. On these are written one hundred million prayers. See!” He spoke to Jeanne. “Turn the handle.”
The girl obeyed.
“Now,” he smiled, “you have said one hundred million prayers. Is it not very easy?”
Jeanne favored him with one of her rare smiles. This chubby mandarin in his long robe could help her. “He is not that one who stole my dagger,” she assured herself. “His ears are quite short. He—”
Her thoughts broke short off. Her eyes opened wide.