Then he went toward a lamp, and taking a pocket-handkerchief from his pocket, examined each corner of it in succession.

It was a small pocket-handkerchief of fine cambric.

In one corner were the initials S.S.B., worked neatly in white--such embroidery as is done in St.Petersburg.
"Ach!" exclaimed Steinmetz shortly; "something told me that that was he." He turned the little piece of cambric over and over, examining it slowly, with a heavy Germanic cunning.

He had taken this handkerchief from the body of the nameless rider who was now lying alone on the steppe twelve miles away.
Steinmetz returned to the large refreshment room, and ordered the waiter to bring him a glass of Benedictine, which he drank slowly and thoughtfully.
Then he went toward the large black stove which stands in the railway restaurant at Tver.

He opened the door with the point of his boot.