“Who are all these people?” I said to the count in a low voice.

“Bolsheviks,” he whispered.  “At least they aren’t really.  You see that group in the corner?

“The ones with the long knives,” I said.

“Yes.  They are, or at least they were, the orchestra of the Berlin Opera.  They are now the Bolshevik Music Commission.  They are here this morning to see about getting their second violinist hanged.”

“Why not the first?” I asked.

“They had him hanged yesterday.  Both cases are quite clear.  The men undoubtedly favoured the war:  one, at least, of them openly spoke in disparagement of President Wilson.  But come along.  Let me show you our new city.”

We stepped out upon the great square which faced the building.  How completely it was changed from the Berlin that I had known!  My attention was at once arrested by the new and glaring signboards at the shops and hotels, and the streamers with mottos suspended across the streets.  I realised as I read them the marvellous adaptability of the German people and their magnanimity towards their enemies.  Conspicuous in huge lettering was hotel president Wilson, and close beside it cabaret Queen Mary:  English dancing.  The square itself, which I remembered as the Kaiserplatz, was now renamed on huge signboards grand square of the British navy.  Not far off one noticed the restaurant Marshal Foch, side by side with the Roosevelt saloon and the beer garden George V.

But the change in the appearance and costume of the men who crowded the streets was even more notable.  The uniforms and the pointed helmets of two years ago had vanished utterly.  The men that one saw retained indeed their German stoutness, their flabby faces, and their big spectacles.  But they were now dressed for the most part in the costume of the Russian Monjik, while some of them appeared in American wideawakes and Kentucky frock coats, or in English stove-pipe hats and morning coats.  A few of the stouter were in Highland costume.

“You are amazed,” said Boobenstein as we stood a moment looking at the motley crowd.  “What does it mean?” I asked.

“One moment,” said the count.  “I will first summon a taxi.  It will be more convenient to talk as we ride.”

He whistled and there presently came lumbering to our side an ancient and decrepit vehicle which would have excited my laughter but for the seriousness of the count’s face.  The top of the conveyance had evidently long since been torn off leaving, only the frame:  the copper fastenings had been removed:  the tires were gone:  the doors were altogether missing.

“Our new 1919 model,” said the count.  “Observe the absence of the old-fashioned rubber tires, still used by the less progressive peoples.  Our chemists found that riding on rubber was bad for the eye-sight.  Note, too, the time saved by not having any doors.”