“Excuse me a moment,” he said, “while I go and get rid of this tobacco.”

He got up from his chair and walked away towards the door of an inner room.  As he did so, there struck me something strangely familiar in his gait and figure.  Conceal it as he might, there was still the stiff wooden movement of a Prussian general beneath his assumed swagger.  The poise of his head still seemed to suggest the pointed helmet of the Prussian.  I could without effort imagine a military cloak about his shoulders instead of his Bolshevik sheepskin.

Then, all in a moment, as he re-entered the room, I recalled exactly who he was.

“My friend,” I said, reaching out my hand, “pardon me for not knowing you at once.  I recognize you now...”

“Hush,” said the Bolshevik.  “Don’t speak!  I never saw you in my life.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “I knew you years ago in Canada when you were disguised as a waiter.  And you it was who conducted me through Germany two years ago when I made my war visit.  You are no more a Bolshevik than I am.  You are General Count Boob von Boobenstein.”

The general sank down in his chair, his face pale beneath its plaster of rouge.

“Hush!” he said.  “If they learn it, it is death.”

“My dear Boob,” I said, “not a word shall pass my lips.”

The general grasped my hand.  “The true spirit,” he said, “the true English comradeship; how deeply we admire it in Germany!”

“I am sure you do,” I answered.  “But tell me, what is the meaning of all this?  Why are you a Bolshevik?”

“We all are,” said the count, dropping his assumed rough voice, and speaking in a tone of quiet melancholy.  “It’s the only thing to be.  But come,” he added, getting up from his chair, “I took you once through Berlin in war time.  Let me take you out again and show you Berlin under the Bolsheviks.”

“I shall be only too happy,” I said.

“I shall leave my pistols and knives here,” said Boobenstein, “and if you will excuse me I shall change my costume a little.  To appear as I am would excite too much enthusiasm.  I shall walk out with you in the simple costume of a gentleman.  It’s a risky thing to do in Berlin, but I’ll chance it.”

The count retired, and presently returned dressed in the quiet bell-shaped purple coat, the simple scarlet tie, the pea-green hat and the white spats that mark the German gentleman all the world over.

“Bless me, Count,” I said, “you look just like Bernstorff.”

“Hush,” said the count.  “Don’t mention him.  He’s here in Berlin.”

“What’s he doing?” I asked.

“He’s a Bolshevik; one of our leaders; he’s just been elected president of the Scavengers Union.  They say he’s the very man for it.  But come along, and, by the way, when we get into the street talk English and only English.  There’s getting to be a prejudice here against German.”

We passed out of the door and through the spacious corridors and down the stairways of the great building.  All about were little groups of ferocious looking men, dressed like stage Russians, all chewing tobacco and redolent of alcohol.