Drawing his hand from his coat-pocket, he stretched himself with an assumption of ease, as though he saw and recognized the twinkle in the electric lamps and spontaneously rose to its demands.
The train was flying forward at unabated speed.

Outside, the raw January air was clinging in a film to the carriage window; inside, the dim light and overheated air made an artificial atmosphere, enervating or stimulating according to the traveller's gifts.

To this solitary voyager stimulation was obviously the effect produced, for, try as he might to cheat the inquisitive lamps, interest in every detail of his surroundings was portrayed in his face, in the poise of his head, the quickness of his glance as he gazed round the compartment, verifying the impression that he was alone.
[Illustration: STANDING AGAIN IN THE OUTER COURT OF A HOUSE IN PETERSBURG] Yes, he was absolutely alone! Everything was as it had been when he settled himself to sleep on the departure of the three strangers.

There, on the opposite seat, were their rugs, their fur-lined coats, their illustrated papers--all the impedimenta of prosperous travellers; and there, on the rack above them, was his own modest hand-bag without initials or label--a common little bag that might have belonged to some poor Russian clerk or held the possessions of some needy Polish student.
The owner's glance scanned and appraised it, then by suggestion fell to the plain rough overcoat that covered him from his neck to the tops of his high boots, and whose replica was to be seen any day in the meaner streets of Petersburg or Moscow.

Like the bag, it was a little strange, a little incongruous in its comfortable surroundings--a little savoring of mystery.
The traveller's pulses quickened, his being lifted to the moment, for in his soul was the spark of adventure, in his eyes the adventurous look--fearless, observant, questioning.