No!  He has not gone.  He is in the case.  I hear distinctly his regular and prolonged respiration.  He sleeps.  He sleeps the sleep of the innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of the swindler of the Grand Transasiatic.

I am just going to knock when the locomotive’s whistle emits its strident crow, as we pass through a station.  But the train is not going to stop, I know, and I wait until the whistling has ceased.

I then give a gentle knock on the panel.

There is no reply.

However, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before.

I knock more loudly.

This time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and fright.

“Open, open!” I say in Russian.

There is no reply.

“Open!” I say again.  “It is a friend who speaks.  You have nothing to fear!”

If the panel is not lowered, as I had hoped, there is the crack of a match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case.

I look at the prisoner through the holes in the side.

There is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard.  He does not know whether he is asleep or awake.

“Open, my friend, I say, open and have confidence.  I have discovered your secret.  I shall say nothing about it.  On the other hand, I may be of use to you.”

The poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move.

“You are a Roumanian, I think,” I add, “and I am a Frenchman.”

“Frenchman?  You are a Frenchman?”

And this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent.

One more bond between us.

The panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp I can examine my No. 11, to whom I shall be able to give a less arithmetical designation.

“No one can see us, nor hear us?” he asked in a half-stifled voice.

“No one.”

“The guard?”

“Asleep.”

My new friend takes my hands, he clasps them.  I feel that he seeks a support.  He understands he can depend on me.  And he murmurs: 

“Do not betray me—­do not betray me.”

“Betray you, my boy?  Did not the French newspapers sympathize with that little Austrian tailor, with those two Spanish sweethearts, who sent themselves by train in the way you are doing?  Were not subscriptions opened in their favor?  And can you believe that I, a journalist—­”

“You are a journalist?”

“Claudius Bombarnac, special correspondent of the Twentieth Century."

“A French journal—­”

“Yes, I tell you.”

“And you are going to Pekin?”

“Through to Pekin.”

“Ah!  Monsieur Bombarnac, Providence has sent you onto my road.”

“No, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the powers they hold from Providence, courage and confidence.  Anything I can do for you I will.”