Dimitri Ivan’itch looked puzzled and ashamed.  “Forgive me,” he said; “I am to blame—­not for having attempted to deceive you, but for not having taken precautions.  I have not read the manuscript, and I could not if I wished, for it is written in English, and I know no language but my mother tongue.  My friends ought not to have done this.  Give me back the paper, and I shall take care that nothing of the sort occurs in future.”

This promise was faithfully kept, and I had no further reason to complain.  Dimitri Ivan’itch gave me a considerable amount of information, and lent me a valuable collection of revolutionary pamphlets.  Unfortunately the course of tuition was suddenly interrupted by unforeseen circumstances, which I may mention as characteristic of life in St. Petersburg at the time.  My servant, an excellent young Russian, more honest than intelligent, came to me one morning with a mysterious air, and warned me to be on my guard, because there were “bad people” going about.  On being pressed a little, he explained to me what he meant.  Two strangers had come to him and, after offering him a few roubles, had asked him a number of questions about my habits—­at what hour I went out and came home, what persons called on me, and much more of the same sort.  “They even tried, sir, to get into your sitting-room; but of course I did not allow them.  I believe they want to rob you!”

It was not difficult to guess who these “bad people” were who took such a keen interest in my doings, and who wanted to examine my apartment in my absence.  Any doubts I had on the subject were soon removed.  On the morrow and following days I noticed that whenever I went out, and wherever I might walk or drive, I was closely followed by two unsympathetic-looking individuals—­so closely that when I turned round sharp they ran into me.  The first and second times this little accident occurred they received a strong volley of unceremonious vernacular; but when we became better acquainted we simply smiled at each other knowingly, as the old Roman Augurs are supposed to have done when they met in public unobserved.  There was no longer any attempt at concealment or mystification.  I knew I was being shadowed, and the shadowers could not help perceiving that I knew it.  Yet, strange to say, they were never changed!

The reader probably assumes that the secret police had somehow got wind of my relations with the revolutionists.  Such an assumption presupposes on the part of the police an amount of intelligence and perspicacity which they do not usually possess.  On this occasion they were on an entirely wrong scent, and the very day when I first noticed my shadowers, a high official, who seemed to regard the whole thing as a good joke, told me confidentially what the wrong scent was.  At the instigation of an ex-ambassador, from whom I had the misfortune to differ in matters of foreign policy, the Moscow Gazette had denounced me publicly