They dined better in the restaurant car than they had in the hotel, and Simon, at least, was grateful for an early bed.
When they awoke next day they had left Bui far behind and were crossing a seemingly interminable plain. Simon started to get up, but the Duke forbade him.
“You are ill, my friend,” he said, quickly.
“Ner,” said Simon.
“But yes,” said the Duke. “You are feverish!”
“Never felt better in my life,” said Simon.
‘That is a pity, since I’m afraid you’ve got to pass the day in bed!”
Simon grinned understandingly. He knew De Richleau to be a wily man, and felt certain that this was a part of some scheme which the Duke had hatched in the night to get them safely off the train at Sverlovsk.
When the train steward arrived with the news that breakfast was ready, De Richleau held a long conversation with him in Russian. He was a fat, jolly man, and seemed much concerned. Simon groaned and made himself look as ill as possible, but later he supplemented the weak tea and toast which the sympathetic steward brought him, with several rolls that the Duke had smuggled out of the restaurant car.
All that morning they rolled through the unending plain, until at a little after half past one they came to a halt at Viatka, where the Duke got out to stretch his legs. Simon, of course, had to remain in bed, and his luncheon was perforce meagre.