It is a beautiful night, with the northerly wind beginning to freshen.  In the offing, long, greenish streaks are sweeping over the surface of the sea.  It is possible that the night may be rougher than we expect.  In the forepart of the steamer are many passengers, Turkomans in rags, Kirghizes wrapped up to the eyes, moujiks in emigrant costume—­poor fellows, in fact, stretched on the spare spars, against the sides, and along the tarpaulins.  They are almost all smoking or nibbling at the provisions they have brought for the voyage.  The others are trying to sleep and forget their fatigue, and perhaps their hunger.

It occurs to me to take a stroll among these groups.  I am like a hunter beating the brushwood before getting into the hiding place.  And I go among this heap of packages, looking them over as if I were a custom house officer.

A rather large deal case, covered with a tarpaulin, attracts my attention.  It measures about a yard and a half in height, and a yard in width and depth.  It has been placed here with the care required by these words in Russian, written on the side, “Glass—­Fragile—­Keep from damp,” and then directions, “Top—­Bottom,” which have been respected.  And then there is the address, “Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, Petchili, China.”

This Zinca Klork—­her name showed it—­ought to be a Roumanian, and she was taking advantage of this through train on the Grand Transasiatic to get her glass forwarded.  Was this an article in request at the shops of the Middle Kingdom?  How otherwise could the fair Celestials admire their almond eyes and their elaborate hair?

The bell rang and announced the six-o’clock dinner.  The dining-room is forward.  I went down to it, and found it already occupied by some forty people.

Ephrinell had installed himself nearly in the middle.  There was a vacant seat near him; he beckoned to me to occupy it, and I hastened to take possession.

Was it by chance?  I know not; but the Englishwoman was seated on Ephrinell’s left and talking to him.  He introduced me.

“Miss Horatia Bluett,” he said.

Opposite I saw the French couple conscientiously studying the bill of fare.

At the other end of the table, close to where the food came from—­and where the people got served first—­was the German passenger, a man strongly built and with a ruddy face, fair hair, reddish beard, clumsy hands, and a very long nose which reminded one of the proboscidean feature of the plantigrades.  He had that peculiar look of the officers of the Landsturm threatened with premature obesity.

“He is not late this time,” said I to Ephrinell.

“The dinner hour is never forgotten in the German Empire!” replied the American.

“Do you know that German’s name?”

“Baron Weissschnitzerdoerfer.”

“And with that name is he going to Pekin?”

“To Pekin, like that Russian major who is sitting near the captain of the Astara.”