All night was spent in running the three hundred kilometres which separate this town from Ho Nan, where we had an hour to stop.
I fancy the Londoners might easily imagine that this town of Ho Nan was London, and perhaps Mrs. Ephrinell did so. Not because there was a Strand with its extraordinary traffic, nor a Thames with its prodigious movement of barges and steamboats. No! But because we were in a fog so thick that it was impossible to see either houses or pagodas.
The fog lasted all day, and this hindered the progress of the train. These Chinese engine-drivers are really very skilful and attentive and intelligent.
We were not fortunate in our last day’s journey before reaching Tien Tsin! What a loss of copy! What paragraphs were melted away in these unfathomable vapors! I saw nothing of the gorges and ravines, through which runs the Grand Transasiatic; nothing of the valley of Lou-Ngan, where we stopped at eleven o’clock; nothing of the two hundred and thirty kilometres which we accomplished amid the wreaths of a sort of yellow steam, worthy of a yellow country, until we stopped about ten o’clock at night at Tai-Youan.
Ah! the disagreeable day.
Luckily the fog rose early in the evening. Now it is night—and a very dark night, too.
I go to the refreshment bar and buy a few cakes and a bottle of wine. My intention is to pay a last visit to Kinko. We will drink to his health, to his approaching marriage with the fair Romanian. He has traveled by fraud, I know, and if the Grand Transasiatic only knew! But the Grand Transasiatic will not know.
During the stoppage Faruskiar and Ghangir are walking on the platform and looking at the train. But it is not the van at the rear that is attracting their attention, but the van in front, and they seem to be much interested in it.
Are they suspicious of Kinko? No! the hypothesis is unlikely. The driver and stoker seem to be the object of their very particular attention. They are two brave Chinamen who have just come on duty, and perhaps Faruskiar is not sorry to see men in whom he can trust, with this imperial treasure and a hundred passengers behind them!
The hour for departure strikes, and at midnight the engine begins to move, emitting two or three loud whistles.
As I have said, the night is very dark, without moon, without stars. Long clouds are creeping across the lower zones of the atmosphere. It will be easy for me to enter the van without being noticed. And I have not been too liberal in my visits to Kinko during these twelve days on the road.
At this moment Popof says to me:
“Are you not going to sleep tonight, Monsieur Bombarnac?”
“I am in no hurry,” I reply; “after this foggy day, spent inside the car, I am glad of a breath of fresh air. Where does the train stop next?”
“At Fuen-Choo, when it has passed the junction with the Nanking line.”
“Good night, Popof.”
“Good night, Monsieur Bombarnac.”
I am alone.
The idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and I stop for an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van.
The passengers, with the exception of the Chinese guard, are all sleeping their last sleep—their last, be it understood, on the Grand Transasiatic.
Returning to the front of the train, I approach Popof’s box, and find him sound asleep.
I then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my presence to Kinko.
The panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted. In exchange for the cakes and wine I receive the brave fellow’s thanks, and we drink to the health of Zinca Klork, whose acquaintance I am to make on the morrow.
It is ten minutes to one. In twelve minutes, so Popof says, we shall pass the junction with the Nanking branch. This branch is only completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the Tjon valley. This viaduct is a great work—I have the details from Pan-Chao—and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which rise for a hundred feet above the ground.
As I know we are to halt at Fuen-Choo, I shake hands with Kinko, and rise to take my leave.
At this moment I seem to hear someone on the platform in the rear of the van.
“Look out, Kinko!” I say in a whisper.
The lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still.
I am not mistaken. Someone is opening the door of the van.
“Your panel,” I whisper.
The panel is raised, the car is shut, and I am alone in the dark.
Evidently it must be Popof who has come in. What will he think to find me here? The first time I came to visit the young Romanian I hid among the packages. Well, I will hide a second time. If I get behind Ephrinell’s boxes it is not likely that Popof will see me, even by the light of his lantern.
I do so; and I watch.
It is not Popof, for he would have brought his lantern.
I try to recognize the people who have just entered. It is difficult. They have glided between the packages, and after opening the further door, they have gone out and shut it behind them.
They are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here—at this hour?
I must know. I have a presentiment that something is in the wind—
Perhaps by listening?
I approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of the train I hear them distinctly enough.
Thousand and ten thousand devils! I am not mistaken! It is the voice of my lord Faruskiar. He is talking with Ghangir in Russian. It is indeed Faruskiar. The four Mongols have accompanied him. But what are they doing there? For what motive are they on the platform which
