For an hour or so Norgate tried in vain to sleep.  All this time the man opposite turned the pages of his book with the utmost cautiousness, moved on tiptoe once to reach down more papers, and held out his finger to warn the train attendant who came with some harmless question.

“The English gentleman,” Norgate heard him whisper, “is tired.  Let him sleep.”

Soon after five o’clock, Norgate gave it up.  He rose to his feet, stretched himself, and was welcomed with a pleasant smile from his companion.

“You have had a refreshing nap,” the latter remarked, “and now, is it not so, you go to take a cup of English tea?”

“You are quite right,” Norgate admitted.  “Better come with me.”

Herr Selingman smiled a smile of triumph.  It was the reward of geniality, this!  He was forming a new friendship!

“I come with great pleasure,” he decided, “only while you drink the tea, I drink the coffee or some beer.  I will see.  I like best the beer,” he explained, turning sidewise to get out of the door, “but it is not the best for my figure.  I have a good conscience and a good digestion, and I eat and drink much.  But it is good to be happy.”

They made their way down to the restaurant car and seated themselves at a table together.

“You let me do the ordering,” Herr Selingman insisted.  “The man here, perhaps, does not speak English.  So!  You will drink your tea with me, sir.  It is a great pleasure to me to entertain an Englishman.  I make many friends travelling.  I like to make friends.  I remember them all, and sometimes we meet again. Kellner, some tea for the gentleman—­English tea with what you call bread and butter.  So!  And for me—­” Selingman paused for a moment and drew a deep sigh of resignation—­“some coffee.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Norgate murmured.

Herr Selingman beamed.

“It is a great pleasure,” he said, “but many times I wonder why you Englishmen, so clever, so world-conquering, do not take the trouble to make yourselves with the languages of other nations familiar.  It means but a little study.  Now you, perhaps, are in business?”

“Not exactly,” Norgate replied grimly.  “To tell you the truth, at the present moment I have no occupation.”

“No occupation!”

Herr Selingman paused in the act of conveying a huge portion of rusk to his mouth, and regarded his companion with wonder.

“So!” he repeated.  “No occupation!  Well, that is what in Germany we know nothing of.  Every one must work, or must take up the army as a permanent profession.  You are, perhaps, one of those Englishmen of whom one reads, who give up all their time to sport?”

Norgate shook his head.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I have worked rather hard during the last five or six years.  It is only just recently that I have lost my occupation.”

Herr Selingman’s curiosity was almost childlike in its transparency, but Norgate found himself unable to gratify it.  In any case, after his denial of any knowledge of the German language, he could scarcely lay claim to even the most indirect connection with the diplomatic service.