I was awakened by the train rumbling over the points of a little moorland junction.

Sunk in a pleasing lethargy, I sat with my eyes closed, and then covertly took a glance at my companion.

He had abandoned the Missionary Child and was reading a little dun-coloured book, and marking passages with a pencil.

His face was absorbed, and it was a new face, not the vacant, good-humoured look of the garrulous bagman, but something shrewd, purposeful, and formidable.

I remained hunched up as if still sleeping, and tried to see what the book was.
But my eyes, good as they are, could make out nothing of the text or title, except that I had a very strong impression that that book was not written in the English tongue.
I woke abruptly, and leaned over to him.