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"You are British?" the conductor asked with a heavy French accent.

"Why, yes."

"A doctor?" The conductor nodded toward the medical bag between Seward's feet.

"Yes."

Seward watched the conductor's gray eyes catalogue the threadbare person in front of him, the ill-fitting suit and well-worn shoes. He was hardly the image of a respectable doctor. "I will see your bag, please."

He handed over the bag, for it was not as if he had much choice in the matter. The conductor methodically pulled out medical bottles, read the labels, and dropped them back in with a clink. Seward knew what the conductor was looking for and hoped he wouldn't dig too deeply.

"Morphine," announced the conductor in a voice so loud that other passengers glanced over. He held up the brown bottle.

"I sometimes have to prescribe it as a sedative."

"I will see your license, please."

Seward searched his pockets. Over a month ago, the International Opium Convention had been signed, prohibiting persons from importing, selling, distributing, and exporting morphine without a medical license. It took him so long to find it that by the time Seward finally produced the license, the conductor was about to pull the cord to stop the train. The conductor examined the paper, frowning, then turned his steely eyes to the travel document. The United Kingdom was the first to use photo identification on their passports. Since that picture had been taken, Seward had lost a tremendous amount of weight. His hair was now much grayer, his beard wild and untrimmed. The man in the train bore little resemblance to the man in the photo.

"Why are you going to Marseilles, doctor?"

"I am treating a patient there."

"What ails this patient?"

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