"Why, certainly, I thought you knew her," and he looked at me curiously, "the Princess Dolgorouki Sliniski. Her husband, the Prince, is attached to the Emperor's household. She is travelling with her two boys and their German tutor. The old gentleman with the white mustache now talking to her is the Russian Ambassador. And you only met her on the train? Old Azarian told me you knew her intimately." "Azarian!" I was groping round in the fog now. "Yes--your room-mate. He is an Armenian and one of the richest bankers in Russia. He lends money to the Czar. His brother got on with you at Cologne. There they go together to look after their luggage--they have an agency here, although their main bank is in St. Petersburg. The brother had the compartment next to that woman, with the big dog. She is the wife of a rich brewer in Cologne, and just think--we must always give that brute a compartment when she travels. Is it not outrageous? It is against the rules, but the orders come from up above"--and he jerked his finger meaningly over his shoulder. The fog was so thick now I could cut it with a knife. "One moment, please," I said, and I laid my hand on his elbow and looked him searchingly in the eye. I intended now to clear things up. "Was there a circus troupe on the train last night?" "No." The answer came quite simply, and I could see it was the truth. "Nor one expected?" "No. There _was_ a circus, but it went through last week." SAMMY It was on the Limited: 10.30 Night Express out of Louisville, bound south to Nashville and beyond. I had lower Four. When I entered the sleeper the porter was making up the berths, the passengers sitting about in each other's way until their beds were ready. I laid my bag on an empty seat, threw my overcoat over its back, and sat down to face a newspaper within a foot of my nose. There was a man behind it, but he was too intent on its columns to be aware of my presence. I made an inspection of his arms and hands and right leg, the only portions of his surface exposed to view. I noticed that the hands were strong and well-shaped, their backs speckled with brown spots--too well kept to have guided a plough and too weather-tanned to have wielded a pen. The leg which was crossed, the foot resting on the left knee, was full and sinewy, the muscles of the thigh well developed, and the round of the calf firmly modelled. The ankle was small and curved like an axe handle and looked as tough. There are times when the mind lapses into vacancy. Nothing interests it. I find it so while waiting to have my berth made up; sleep is too near to waste gray matter. A man's thighs, however, interest me in any mood and at any time. While you may get a man's character from his face, you can, if you will, get his past life from his thigh. It is the walking beam of his locomotion; controls his paddles and is developed in proportion to its uses. It indicates, therefore, the man's habits and his mode of life.