Outside in the corridor they were sucked into the stream of departing
passengers--that odd medley of men and women, unadorned, jaded,
careless, that a night train disgorges. Slowly, step by step, the
procession made its way, each unit that composed it glancing
involuntarily into the empty carriages that he passed--the carriages
that, in their dimmed light, their airlessness, their _débris_ of
papers, seemed to be a reflection of his own exhausted condition; then a
gust of chilly air told of the outer world, and one by one the
travellers slid through the narrow doorway, each instinctively pausing
to brace himself against the biting cold before stepping down upon the
platform.

At last it was Blake's turn. He, too, paused; then he, too, took the
final plunge, shivered, glanced at where McCutcheon and the Englishman
were talking to their porters, then turned to watch the Russian boy
swing himself lithely down from the high step of the train.

All about him was the consciousness of the awakening crowd, conveyed by
the jostling of elbows, the deepening hum of voices.

"Look here!" he said again, in response to his original impulse. "You
have somebody to meet you?"

The boy glanced up, a secret emotion burning in his eyes. "No,
monsieur."

"You are quite alone?"

"Yes, monsieur."