“Who knows?” Jeanne shrugged her shoulders. She had said too much. “A—a Chinaman had it. He is gone. I know not where.”
The mandarin went on telling in his slow way of the treasures in that golden temple; yet it was plain that his mind was not upon the ancient bell, the miniature pagoda nor the smiling Buddha. He was thinking of that knife with a jeweled handle, Jeanne was sure of that.
“I wonder how much he knows,” she thought to herself. “Could he help us find that long-eared one? I am sure of it. And if he did? Ah, well, what then?”
In the end she decided that she dared not trust him, at least not yet.
For some time she lingered in that place of soft lights and silent footsteps.
When at last with a sigh she prepared to drag herself out where humanity flowed like a great river, she dropped a coin in the mandarin’s hand and whispered:
“I will return again, and yet again.”
“Y-e-s.” The mandarin’s tone was barely audible. “Those who reveal dark secrets are often richly rewarded. It is written in a book. You have said one hundred million prayers. You will not forget.”
“I will not forget.”
She was about to leave the place when again her mind received a shock. Because the light was dim, she had not observed until now that the walls were hung with banners.