"All ready, Monsieur Velasco, all ready."

"The boxes on?"

"Yes, Barin."

"You took my valise, did you?"

"Yes, Barin."

The figure disappeared for an instant within the doorway and the light
went out; then he reappeared, carrying a violin-case under his arm,
which he screened from the wet with the folds of his cloak, carefully,
as a mother would cover the face of her child. He leaped to the
carriage.

"All right, Bobo, go ahead. Wait a moment until I get the latch open.
Ye gods! I never felt such cold. My fingers are like frozen sticks.
There! Now, the Station: Warchavski Voksal--as fast as you can! Ugh,
what a storm!"

The Violinist flung himself back in the corner of the kareta, huddling
himself in the furs; the windows were shut and his breath made a steam
against the panes. The carriage was black as a cave.

"There ought to be another fur!" he said angrily to himself. His teeth
were chattering and his whole body shivered against the cushions. "I
told Bobo to put in an extra fur. The devil now, where can it be?"

He groped with his hands, feeling the seat beside him, when all of a
sudden he gave an exclamation, alarmed, half suppressed, his eyes
staring into the darkness, trying vainly to penetrate.

What was it? Something was there, moving, breathing, alive, on the
seat close beside him. Gracious heaven! He wasn't alone! Velasco
crouched back instinctively, putting out both hands as if to ward off a
blow. He listened, peering. Surely something breathed--there, in the
corner! He could make out a shadow, an outline.--No, nothing--it was
nothing at all.

His pulses beat rapidly; he groped again with his hands, slowly,
fearfully, hesitating and then groping again. It was as though
something, someone were trying to elude him in the darkness. His
breath came fast; he listened again.

Something cowered and breathed--"Bozhe moi!" He gripped his lip with
his teeth and hurled himself forward, grappling into the furthermost
recesses of the kareta. His hands grasped a cloak, a human shoulder, a
body. It dragged away from him. He clutched it and something shrank
back into the shadows. His eyes were blind; he could see nothing, he
could hear nothing; he could only feel. It was breathing.

His hand moved cautiously over the cloak, the shoulder. It resisted
him, trying vainly to escape; and then, as the carriage dashed on
through the darkness, he dragged the thing forward, nearer--nearer