At eight o’clock, however, just as we were idling over dessert, two gray-coated police officers entered and arrested me on the serious charge of landing without a passport.

I accompanied them to the police-office, where I was ushered into the presence of the big, bristly Russian who held the town of Abo in terror, the Chief of Police.  The officials which Russia sends into Finland are selected for their harsh discipline and hide-bound bureaucracy, and this human machine in uniform was no exception.  Had he been the Minister of the Interior himself, he could not have been more self-opinionated.

“Well?” he snapped, looking up at me as I was placed before him.  “Your name is Gordon Gregg, English, from Stockholm.  No passport, and decline to leave even though warned—­eh?”

“I have a passport,” I said firmly, producing it.

He looked at it, and pointing with his finger, said:  “It has no date, and is therefore worthless.”

“The fault is not mine, but that of a Russian official.  If you wish it to be dated, you may send it to your Consulate-General in London.”

“I shall not,” he cried, glaring at me angrily.  “And for your insult to the law, I shall commit you to prison for one month.  Perhaps you will then learn Russian manners.”

“Oh! so you will commit an Englishman to prison for a month, without trial—­eh?  That’s very interesting!  Perhaps if you attempt such a thing as that they may have something to say about it in Petersburg.”

“You defy me!”

“Not in the least.  I have presented my passport and demand common courtesy.”

“Your passport is worthless, I tell you!” he cried.  “There, that’s how much it is worth to me!” And snatching it up he tore it in half and tossed the pieces of blue paper in my face.

My blood was up at this insult, yet I bit my lips and remained quite calm.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me who you are?” I asked in as quiet a voice as I could command.

“With pleasure.  I am Michael Boranski, Chief of Police of the Province of Abo-Biornebourg.”

“Ah!  Well, Michael Boranski, I shall trouble you to pick up my passport, stick it together again, and apologize to me.”

“Apologize!  Me apologize!” And the fellow laughed aloud, while the police officers on either side of me grinned from ear to ear.

“You refuse?”

“Refuse?  Certainly I do!”

“Very well, then,” I said, re-opening my pocket-book and taking out an open letter.  “Perhaps you will kindly glance at that.  It is in Russian, so you can read it.”

He snatched it from me with ill-grace, but not without curiosity.  And then, as he read the lines, his face changed and he went paler.  Raising his head, he stood staring at me open-mouthed in amazement.

“I apologize to your Excellency!” he gasped, blanched to the lips.  “I most humbly apologize.  I—­I did not know.  You told me nothing!”