major and I continued to talk of one thing or
another. He told me that if the sun had not set, I should have been
able to see the summits of the Great and Little Balkans of Asia which
rise above the bay of Krasnovodsk.

Already most of our companions had taken up their quarters for the
night on their seats, which by an ingenious mechanism could be
transformed into beds, on which you could stretch yourself at full
length, lay your head on a pillow, wrap yourself in rugs, and if you
didn't sleep well it would be on account of a troubled conscience.

Major Noltitz had nothing to reproach himself with apparently, for a
few minutes after he had said good night he was deep in the sleep of
the just.

As for me, if I remained awake it was because I was troubled in my
mind. I was thinking of my famous packing case, of the man it
contained, and this very night I had resolved to enter into
communication with him. I thought of the people who had done this sort
of thing before. In 1889, 1891, and 1892, an Austrian tailor, Hermann
Zeitung, had come from Vienna to Paris, from Amsterdam to Brussels,
from Antwerp to Christiania in a box, and two sweethearts of Barcelona,
Erres and Flora Anglora, had shared a box between them from Spain into
France.

But I must wait until Popof had retired to rest. The train would not
stop until it reached Gheok Tepe at one o'clock in the morning. During
the run from Kizil Arvat to Gheok Tepe I reckoned that Popof would have
a good sleep, and then, or never, I would put my plan into execution.

Hold! an idea! Suppose it is Zeitung who makes a trade of this sort of
thing and manages to make a little money out of public generosity? It
ought to be Zeitung, it must be! Confound it! he is not at all
interesting! And here was I reckoning on this fellow. Well, we shall
see. I shall know him by his photographs, and perhaps I may make use of
him.

Half an hour went by, and the noise of a door shutting on the platform
of the car told me that our guard had just entered his little box. In
spite of my desire to visit the baggage car I waited patiently, for it
was possible that Popof was not yet sound asleep.

Within, all is quiet under the veiled light of the lamps.

Without, the night is very dark, and the rattle of the train mingles
with the whistling of the rather high wind.

I rise. I draw aside the curtain of one of the lamps. I look at my
watch.

It is a few minutes past eleven. Still two hours to