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 Gheok Tepe.

The moment has come.  I glide between the seats to the door of the car.  I open it gently and shut it after me without being heard by my companions, without waking any one.

Here I am on the platform, which shakes as the train travels.  Amid the unfathomable darkness which envelops the Kara Koum, I experience the feeling of a night at sea when on shipboard.

A feeble light filters through the blind of the guard’s box.  Shall I wait till it is extinct, or, as is very probable, will it not last till the morning?

Anyhow, Popof is not asleep, as I discover by the noise he makes in turning over.  I keep quiet, leaning against the balustrade of the platform.

Leaning forward my looks are attracted by the luminous ray thrown forward by the headlight of the engine.  It seems as though we are running on a road of fire.  Above me the clouds are racing across with great rapidity, and a few constellations glitter through their rifts, Cassiopeia, the Little Bear, in the north, and in the zenith Vega of Lyra.

At length absolute silence reigns on the platforms.  Popof, who is in charge of the train, has his eyes closed in sleep.  Assured of safety I cross the gangway and am in front of the baggage van.

The door is only fastened with a bar which is hung between two staples.

I open it and shut it behind me.

I do this without noise, for if I do not want to attract Popof’s attention, I do not want as yet to attract the attention of the man in the packing case.

Although the darkness is deep in the van, although there is no side window, I know my position.  I know where the case is placed; it is in the left corner as I enter.  The thing is not to knock against any other case—­not against one of those belonging to Ephrinell, for what a row there would be if I set all those artificial teeth chattering!

Carefully feeling with feet and hands, I reach the case.  No cat could have been more gentle or more silent as I felt its edges.

I leaned over and placed my ear timidly against the outer panel.

There was no sound of breathing.

The products of the house of Strong, Bulbul & Co., of New York, could not be more noiseless in their boxes.

A fear seizes upon me—­the fear of seeing all my reporter’s hopes vanish.  Was I deceived on board the Astara?  That respiration, that sneeze; had I dreamed it all?  Was there no one in the case, not even Zeitung?  Were these really glass goods exported to Miss Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China?

No!  Feeble as it is, I detect a movement inside the case!  It becomes more distinct, and I ask if the panel is going to slide, if the prisoner is coming out of his prison to breathe the fresh air?