o the success of my project. I add that the night is dark,
the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. It threatens rain; the wind is
freshening. It is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks
there. It is important to choose the moment when Popof is sound asleep.

It is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. That the
gallant fellow should be reassured--that is the essential point--and he
will be, as soon as I have made his acquaintance. A little information
concerning him, concerning Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, whence he comes,
why he is going to Pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his
provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his
trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to
do in the future, etc., etc., and I have done all that a conscientious
reporter can do. That is what I want to know; that is what I will ask
him. It is not so very much.

And in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. That will
not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours
they have spent in Samarkand. The beds were ready immediately after
dinner. A few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the
gust drove them in very quickly. They have all taken up their places
under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of
some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding
of the train on the steel rails.

I remained outside last of all, and Popof exchanged a few words with me.

"We shall not be disturbed to-night," he said to me, "and I would
advise you to make the most of it. To-morrow night we shall be running
through the defiles of the Pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, I
am afraid."

"Thanks, Popof, I will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot."

Popof wished me good night and went into his cabin.

I saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform.
It was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the
line. The oasis of Samarkand had already been passed, and the rails
were now laid across a long horizontal plain. Many hours would elapse
before the train reached the Syr Daria, over which the line passes by a
bridge like that over the Amou-Daria, but of less importance.

It was about half-past eleven when I decided to open the door of the
van, which I shut behind me.

I knew that the young Roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and
the