“A—a long-eared Chinaman!” Florence exclaimed.
“Longest ears I ever saw. Looked as if some plastic surgeon had spliced pieces on from some other fellow’s ears—might have, too.
“It happened like this,” he went on, taking no notice of her stare.
“We’d picked up some things, jolly unusual they were, too; gold and silver embroidery, rare old stuff, a bell and a knife—three-bladed affair—some rare old pieces of embroidery—”
“A knife!” Florence was staring again. “Three-bladed!
“But of course,” she added hurriedly, “they are common, I suppose. There is one over in the temple, isn’t there?”
“I must not betray secrets,” she was saying to herself. “Not to a man I have known for only an hour.”
“This one was not common,” Erik Nord said quietly. “The hilt was all studded with jewels, diamonds and rubies.”
Once again Florence opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.
“We found these things,” Erik Nord went on, after a moment, “in a rather extraordinary manner. It seems some American, a curious sort of fellow, but very real in his devotion to these people, had somehow talked the whole little city out of their temple worship. He’d turned the temple into a hospital for children, Chinese children.” His voice trailed off into silence.