The arrival—­in time—­at the frontier station at Goch somewhat revived the distressed and drooping.  Everyone seized the opportunity to stretch the limbs, to inhale some fresh air, and to obtain some slight refreshment.  The Customs officials were unusually alert, harrying, and inflexible.  There was the eternal wrangling between the passengers and the officials over articles liable to duty and it was somewhat amusing to me, even with war beating the air, to follow the frantic and useless efforts of old and experienced travellers to smuggle this, that, or something else through the fiscal barrier.

The Customs were so far from being in a conciliatory mood as to be absolutely deaf to entreaty, cajolery, argument, explanation or threat.  They cut the operations summarily short by confiscating everything liable to duty.  As may be imagined a rich harvest was garnered at the expense of the luckless returning patriot.  While the Customs were busy the military officials, who appeared to be swarming everywhere, were equally exacting.  They boarded the train and literally turned it inside out.  Every man and woman and child was subjected to a close personal investigation and cross-examination.  Foreigners were handled with even greater stress and with less ceremony.  I saw four fellow passengers sorted out and rushed under a military escort into the waiting room.

At last it was my turn for military inquisition.  I presented all my credentials, which were scanned from end to end, turned over, and even held up to the light, lest there should be something interwoven with the watermark.  I followed the operations with a quiet amusement, confident in my security, but could not resist remarking upon the thoroughness of the search and the determination to leave nothing to chance.  My passport created the greatest interest.  It was dated July 7th, 1914.  The official looked at me queerly in silent interrogation as he placed his finger beneath the date.  I nodded and made no comment.

With a slight smile of self-satisfaction the officer turned on his heel and beckoned me to follow him.  At the same moment two soldiers clicked their heels behind me and I saw that I was already under severe military suspicion.  I was taken to a long-bearded individual sitting in state on a pedestal.  The officer handed to him the papers he had found upon me.  There was a hurried whispering, the superior individual eyeing me narrowly meanwhile.  They compared the date of the passport with August 2nd, Sunday, the day on which I was travelling, and also examined the vise of the Russian Embassy in the corner.

Suddenly the long-bearded officer hurled a torrent of questions at me and at such a velocity that I was quite unable to follow him.  Observing that his volcanic interrogative eruption was non-productive he slowed down and repeated the questions.

“Why are you travelling at this time?”

“To take up an appointment in Russia.  There is the name—­Prince ——­”