quickness of his glance as he gazed round the compartment, verifying the
impression that he was alone.

[Illustration: STANDING AGAIN IN THE OUTER COURT OF A HOUSE IN
PETERSBURG]

Yes, he was absolutely alone! Everything was as it had been when he
settled himself to sleep on the departure of the three strangers. There,
on the opposite seat, were their rugs, their fur-lined coats, their
illustrated papers--all the impedimenta of prosperous travellers; and
there, on the rack above them, was his own modest hand-bag without
initials or label--a common little bag that might have belonged to some
poor Russian clerk or held the possessions of some needy Polish student.
The owner's glance scanned and appraised it, then by suggestion fell to
the plain rough overcoat that covered him from his neck to the tops of
his high boots, and whose replica was to be seen any day in the meaner
streets of Petersburg or Moscow. Like the bag, it was a little strange,
a little incongruous in its comfortable surroundings--a little savoring
of mystery.

The traveller's pulses quickened, his being lifted to the moment, for in
his soul was the spark of adventure, in his eyes the adventurous
look--fearless, observant, questioning. In composition, in expression
and essence, this boy was that free and fascinating creature, the born
adventurer--high of courage, prodigal of emotion, capturer of the
world's loot.

The spirit within him shone out in the moment of solitude; he passed his
hands down the front, of his coat, revelling in its coarse texture; he
rose to his feet, turned to the sheet of gray, misted glass, and,