fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking
from one end to the other of the van.

The darkness is complete. No jet of light filters through the holes of
the case. That seems all the better for me. It is as well that my No.
11 should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. He is doubtless
asleep. I will give two little knocks on the panel, I will awake him,
and we will explain matters before he can move.

I feel as I go. My hand touches the case; I place my ear against the
panel and I listen.

There is not a stir, not a breath! Is my man not here? Has he got away?
Has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? Has my
news gone with him? Really, I am most uneasy; I listen attentively.

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 u