collars of their overcoats and their sleeves and wiped it off their
beards and mustaches, all the time puffing and blowing.

A young man entered with a yellow valise in his hand, quickly looked
around, and walked straight to the mother.

"To Moscow, to your niece?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, to Tanya."

"Very well."

He put the valise on the bench near her, quickly whipped out a
cigarette, lighted it, and raising his hat, silently walked toward the
other door. The mother stroked the cold skin of the valise, leaned her
elbows on it, and, satisfied, began again to look around at the people.
In a few moments she arose and walked over to the other bench, nearer
to the exit to the platform. She held the valise lightly in her hand;
it was not large, and she walked with raised head, scanning the faces
that flashed before her.

One man in a short overcoat and its collar raised jostled against her
and jumped back, silently waving his hand toward his head. Something
familiar about him struck her; she glanced around and saw that he was
looking at her with one eye gleaming out of his collar. This attentive
eye pricked her; the hand in which she held the valise trembled; she
felt a dull pain in her shoulder, and the load suddenly grew heavy.

"I've seen him somewhere," she thought, and with the thought suppressed
the unpleasant, confused feeling in her breast. She would not permit
herself to define the cold sensation that already pressed her heart
quietly but powerfully. It grew and rose in her throat, filling her
mouth with a dry, bitter taste, and compelling her to turn around and
look once more. As she turned he carefully shifted from one foot to
the other, standing on the same spot; it seemed he wanted something,
but could not decide what. His right hand was thrust between the
buttons of his coat, the other he kept in his pocket. On account of
this the right shoulder seemed higher than the left.

Without hastening, she walked to the bench and sat down carefully,
slowly, as if afraid of tearing something in herself or on herself. Her
memory, aroused by a sharp premonition of misfortune, quickly presented
this man twice to her imagination--once in the field outside the city,
after the escape of Rybin; a second time in the evening in the court.
There at his side stood the constable to whom she had pointed out the
false way taken by Rybin. They knew her; they were tracking her--this
was evident.

"Am I caught