! Several times I have almost fallen asleep,
and twice or thrice I have had to go out into the fresh air on the
platform.

The train enters Tchardjoui Station to the minute. It is an important
town of the Khanate of Bokhara, which the Transcaspian reached towards
the end of 1886, seventeen months after the first sleeper was laid. We
are not more than twelve versts from the Amu-Daria, and beyond that
river I shall enter on my adventure.

I have said that the stop at Tchardjoui ought to last a quarter of an
hour. A few travelers alight, for they have booked to this town which
contains about thirty thousand inhabitants. Others get in to proceed to
Bokhara and Samarkand, but these are only second-class passengers. This
produces a certain amount of bustle on the platform.

I also get out and take a walk up and down by the side of the front
van, and I notice the door silently open and shut. A man creeps out on
to the platform and slips away through the station, which is dimly
lighted by a few petroleum lamps.

It is my Roumanian. It can be no one else. He has not been seen, and
there he is, lost among the other travelers. Why this escape? Is it to
renew his provisions at the refreshment bar? On the contrary, is not
his intention, as I am afraid it is, to get away from us?

Shall I stop him? I will make myself known to him; promise to help him.
I will speak to him in French, in English, in German, in Russian--as he
pleases. I will say to him: "My friend, trust to my discretion; I will
not betray you. Provisions? I will bring them to you during the night.
Encouragements? I will heap them on you as I will the refreshments. Do
not forget that Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, evidently the most lovely of
Roumanians, is expecting you at Pekin, etc."

Behold me then following him without appearing to do so. Amid all this
hurry to and fro he is in little danger of being noticed. Neither Popof
nor any of the company's servants would suspect him to be a swindler.
Is he going towards the gate to escape me?

No! He only wants to stretch his legs better than he can do in the van.
After an imprisonment which has lasted since he left Baku--that is to
say, about sixty hours--he has earned ten minutes of freedom.

He is a man of middle height, lithe in his movements, and with a
gliding kind of walk. He could roll himself up like a cat and find
quite room enough in his case. He wears an old vest, his trousers are
held up by a belt, and his c