Sometimes at night he heard a stir in the mysterious room; nay, once whispers reached him, some of them in the deep voice of Pinkus himself.

One evening, too, coming home late, he saw boxes and bundles in a little carriage before the next house, all modestly covered up with white linen; and that very night two silent guests disappeared, and came back no more; from all of which Veitel concluded that his host was a commission agent, who had his reasons for carrying on business by night rather than by day.
It was as clear as possible.

These goods were taken eastward, smuggled over the border, and spread all over Russia.
Veitel used his discovery judiciously, only giving such hints of it to Pinkus as to insure his most respectful behavior.
On one eventful day Veitel returned in thoughtful mood to his lodgings, and sat in the public room.

He was pondering how best to get hold of some scribe who would initiate him into the mysteries of grammar and book-keeping for the smallest possible fee; nay, perhaps for a certain old black coat, which, owing to the peculiarity of its cut, he had never yet been able to dispose of.

Happening to look up in the midst of his reflections, his eye fell on a stranger who held a pen in his hand, and conversed with a tradesman.