“He is not late this time,” said I to Ephrinell.
“The dinner hour is never forgotten in the German Empire!” replied the American.
“Do you know that German’s name?”
“Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer.”
“And with that name is he going to Pekin?”
“To Pekin, like that Russian major who is sitting near the captain of the Astara.”
I looked at the man indicated. He was about fifty years of age, of true Muscovite type, beard and hair turning gray, face prepossessing. I knew Russian: he ought to know French. Perhaps he was the fellow traveler of whom I had dreamed.
“You said he was a major, Mr. Ephrinell?”
“Yes, a doctor in the Russian army, and they call him Major Noltitz.”
Evidently the American was some distance ahead of me, and yet he was not a reporter by profession.