What I had better do to see and not to be seen is to hide between two cases.  Thanks to the darkness there is nothing to fear.

Suddenly a slight cracking greets my ear.  I am not the sport of an illusion; it is the crack of a match being lighted.

Almost immediately a few feeble rays pierce the ventilation holes of the case.

If I had had any doubts as to the position held by the prisoner in the scale of being, I have none now.  At the least it must be an ape who knows the use of fire, and also the handling of matches.  Travelers tell us that such animals exist, but we have to take the statement on trust.

Why should I not confess it?  A certain emotion came over me and I had to take care I did not run away.

A minute elapsed.  Nothing shows that the panel has been moved, nothing gives me reason to suppose that the unknown is coming out.

Cautiously I wait.  Then I have an idea to make something out of this light.  The case is lighted within; if I were to peep through those holes?

I creep toward the case.  A single apprehension chills my brain.  If the light were suddenly extinguished!

I am against the panel, which I take care not to touch, and I put my eyes close to one of the holes.

There is a man in the box, and it is not the Austrian tailor, Zeitung!  Thank Heaven!  I will soon make him my No. 11.

The man’s features I can make out clearly.  He is from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age.  He does not shave, and his beard is brown.  He is of the true Roumanian type, and that confirms me in my notion regarding his Roumanian correspondent.  He is good-looking, although his face denotes great energy of character, and he must be energetic to have shut himself up in a box like this for such a long journey.  But if he has nothing of the malefactor about him, I must confess that he does not look like the hero I am in search of as the chief personage in my story.

After all, they were not heroes, that Austrian and that Spaniard who traveled in their packing cases.  They were young men, very simple, very ordinary, and yet they yielded columns of copy.  And so this brave No. 11, with amplifications, antonyms, diaphoreses, epitases, tropes, metaphors, and other figures of that sort, I will beat out, I will enlarge, I will develop—­as they develop a photographic negative.

Besides to travel in a box from Tiflis to Pekin is quite another affair than traveling from Vienna or Barcelona to Paris, as was done by Zeitung, Erres and Flora Anglora.

I add that I will not betray my Roumanian; I will report him to no one.  He may rely on my discretion; he may reckon on my good offices if I can be of use to him when he is found out.

But what is he doing now?  Well, he is seated on the bottom of his case and placidly eating his supper by the light of a little lamp.  A box of preserves is on his knee, biscuit is not wanting, and in a little cupboard I notice some full bottles, besides a rug and overcoat hooked up on the wall.