later, to a standstill. The sound of the opening of windows from the
other side of the corridor was heard all down the train. Selingman and
his companion followed the general example, opening the door of the
carriage and the window opposite. A draught blew through the compartment.
One of the small folded slips of paper from Selingman's pocket-book
fluttered along the seat. It came within reach of Norgate. Cautiously he
stretched out his fingers and gripped it. In a moment it was in his
pocket. He sat up in his place. Selingman had turned around.

"Anything the matter?" Norgate asked sleepily.

"Not that one can gather," Selingman replied. "You have slept well. I am
glad that our conversation has not disturbed you. This is my agent from
Brussels--Mr. Meyer. He sells our crockery in that city--not so much as
he should sell, perhaps, but still he does his best."

Mr. Meyer was a dark little man who wore gold-rimmed spectacles, neat
clothes, and a timid smile. Norgate nodded to him good-humouredly.

"You should get Herr Selingman to come oftener and help you," he
remarked, yawning. "I can imagine that he would be able to sell anything
he tried to."

"It is what I often tell him, sir," Mr. Meyer replied, "but he is too
fond of the English trade."

"English money is no better than Belgian," Herr Selingman declared, "but
there is more of it. Let us go round to the restaurant car and drink a
bottle of wine together while the beds are prepared."