Red morocco Turkish slippers with
pointed toes; embroidered smoking-cap--all appointments of a man of
refinement and of means. Tucked beside his razor-case were some books
richly bound, and some bundles tied with red tape. Like most educated
Russians, he spoke English with barely an accent.
I was not long in arriving at a conclusion. No one would have been--no
one of my experience. He was either a despatch-agent connected with the
Government, or some lawyer of prominence, who was on his way to Paris to
look after the interests of some client of his in Russia. The latter,
probably. The only man on the car he seemed to know, besides myself, was
the Sleeping-Car Manager, who lifted his hat to him as he passed, and
the Ring Master, with whom he stood talking at the door of his
compartment. This, however, was before I had brought the Pigeon Charmer
into the car.
The cigarette smoked, I was again in the corridor, the bald-headed man
holding the door for me to pass out first.
It was now nine o'clock, and we had been under way an hour.
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