CZAR'S MESSENGER

I drew out my watch and glanced at it by the light of the flaring
stoke-hole. It was just half-past eight.

The time taken up on the journey between Petersburg and Moscow varies
greatly according to the state of the weather and the amount of snow
on the line. But even in the summer the best trains are allowed
twelve hours, while the slow ones take nearly twenty-four. The
special Siberian express was timed to reach the ancient capital of
the czars at ten o'clock in the morning, and we had overtaken it with
rather more than an hour to spare.

I ordered the driver to creep up gradually, but not to approach too
near the hindmost coach of the train in front until Moscow was in
sight.

Obedient to my instructions, he slackened speed by degrees, till we
were rolling along at the same rate as the express, with a space of
three or four hundred yards between us.

Presently a red flag was thrust out from a side window at the rear
of the last coach and waved furiously. The driver of my engine
responded with first a green and then a white signal, indication that
there was no danger though caution was desirable.

The express perceptibly quickened its speed, but of course without
our allowing it to get farther ahead. At last the spires of the
Kremlin, and the green copper domes gleamed out across the waste, and
I nodded to the driver to close up.

He managed the maneuver with the skill of an artist. Inch by inch we
neared the guard's van in front, and our buffers were actually
touching as the engine in front blew off steam and we slowed
alongside the Moscow station.

Before the wheels of the express had ceased to move I was out on the
platform, and running up to the guard of the express.

"I have come on the pilot engine from Petersburg," I told him
hurriedly. "Tell no one of my arrival. Do not report the chase. If
you are questioned, say that you have orders to say nothing. And now
tell me which is the train for Dalny and Port Arthur, and when does
it leave?"

The guard, thoroughly cowed, promised implicit obedience. He showed
me a long corridor train with handsome sleeping cars and dining
saloons, which was drawn up ready at another platform.

"That is the train which goes to Baikal," he told me. "If the ice on
the lake will bear, rails may be laid right across it; if not, there
will be sleighs to transport the passengers to a train on the other
side. The train leaves at noon."

I thanked him and