Suddenly his face appeared in the window at my elbow. The door was flung
open.

"Quick!" he whispered in my ear, "follow me."

"My things ..." I gasped with one foot on the foot-board of the other
train. At the same moment the train began to move.

The guide pointed to the carriage into which I had clambered.

"The porter ..." I cried from the open door, thinking he had not
understood me.

The guide pointed towards the carriage again, then tapped himself on the
chest with a significant smile.

The next moment he had disappeared and I had not even thanked him.

The Berlin train bumped ponderously out of the station. Peering
cautiously out of the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the waiter, Karl,
hurrying down the platform. With him was a swarthy, massively built man
who leaned heavily on a stick and limped painfully as he ran. One of his
feet, I could see, was misshapen and the sweat was pouring down his
face.

I would have liked to wave my hand to the pair, but I prudently drew
back out of sight of the platform.

Caution, caution, caution, must henceforward be my watchword.