“I am in no hurry,” I reply; “after this foggy day, spent inside the car, I am glad of a breath of fresh air.  Where does the train stop next?”

“At Fuen-Choo, when it has passed the junction with the Nanking line.”

“Good night, Popof.”

“Good night, Monsieur Bombarnac.”

I am alone.

The idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and I stop for an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van.

The passengers, with the exception of the Chinese guard, are all sleeping their last sleep—­their last, be it understood, on the Grand Transasiatic.

Returning to the front of the train, I approach Popof’s box, and find him sound asleep.

I then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my presence to Kinko.

The panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted.  In exchange for the cakes and wine I receive the brave fellow’s thanks, and we drink to the health of Zinca Klork, whose acquaintance I am to make on the morrow.

It is ten minutes to one.  In twelve minutes, so Popof says, we shall pass the junction with the Nanking branch.  This branch is only completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the Tjon valley.  This viaduct is a great work—­I have the details from Pan-Chao—­and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which rise for a hundred feet above the ground.

As I know we are to halt at Fuen-Choo, I shake hands with Kinko, and rise to take my leave.

At this moment I seem to hear some one on the platform in the rear of the van.

“Look out, Kinko!” I say in a whisper.

The lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still.

I am not mistaken.  Some one is opening the door of the van.

“Your panel,” I whisper.

The panel is raised, the car is shut, and I am alone in the dark.

Evidently it must be Popof who has come in.  What will he think to find me here?  The first time I came to visit the young Roumanian I hid among the packages.  Well, I will hide a second time.  If I get behind Ephrinell’s boxes it is not likely that Popof will see me, even by the light of his lantern.

I do so; and I watch.

It is not Popof, for he would have brought his lantern.

I try to recognize the people who have just entered.  It is difficult.  They have glided between the packages, and after opening the further door, they have gone out and shut it behind them.

They are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here—­at this hour?

I must know.  I have a presentiment that something is in the wind

Perhaps by listening?

I approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of the train I hear them distinctly enough—­

Thousand and ten thousand devils!  I am not mistaken!  It is the voice of my lord Faruskiar.  He is talking with Ghangir in Russian.  It is indeed Faruskiar.  The four Mongols have accompanied him.  But what are they doing there?  For what motive are they on the platform which is just behind the tender?  And what are they saying?