In the Cause of Freedom

“Do you mean to take me for a spy?”

I had hard work to prevent myself laughing at the man to his face; and it is no light matter to laugh at these self-satisfied, bullying officials in Russian Poland. Some of them have too much power.

“Do I understand that you refuse to answer my questions and shew me your papers?”

“And what if I do?” He had burst into my room in the little inn at Bratinsk as I sat reading my paper over a cigar, and without any preface had fired his questions at me with the peremptory incivility of the average police agent. My temper had taken the intrusion badly.

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “I am a police agent from Warsaw and must know your business in Bratinsk.”

At that I saw light. I recalled a paragraph I had just read in the Warsaw paper. I pointed to it. “Is this the key to your visit?”

“Ah, you have read it,” he replied with that offensive manner in which these people always contrive to imply that everything you say or do is a matter of suspicion.

“I’ll read it again now with more interest,” said I. I did so very deliberately, to gain time to cool my temper and see how it could possibly affect me.

“We are in a position to state that a raid was made two nights ago upon a house in the Kronplatz, which has long been suspected to be the Warsaw headquarters of a branch of the dangerous patriotic society known as the ‘P.F.F.’ (Polish Freedom Fraternity). The house was deserted at the time, but important papers were found which revealed the existence of a conspiracy of wide and far-reaching extent. The complete break-up of the powerful organization of the Freedom Fraternity is likely to be the result of the raid, and several well-known patriots are said to be implicated by the discoveries. Among the names rumoured is that of Count Peter Valdemar, once well known as the ‘Stormy Petrel’ of Polish politics.”

“Do you take me for Count Peter Valdemar?” I asked.

“I did not come here to be fooled,” was the angry reply. “If you will not comply with my demands, you must accompany me to Warsaw.”

I saw the prudence of not angering him. “I am Robert Anstruther, an Englishman, and have been here about three weeks, shooting over the estate of my friend, Count Ladislas Tuleski.”

“Your passport?”

“Here it is. You have a very unpleasant manner,” I could not help adding, as I took out my pocket book. By a curious chance I had three passports; my own and that of my chum, Robert Garrett and his sister, Margaret. They were to have come out with me on their way to Turkey, but had been prevented at the last moment. I picked mine out and handed it to him. “It’s properly viséd, you’ll see.”

He assumed a very profound air as he read it. “You speak Polish very well for an Englishman,” he said.

“I speak also German and French, and some Russian.”

“You have no trace of the vile English accent.”

“Is that meant for a compliment?” I asked lightly. It was no use to get angry again.

“And you are a friend of Count Ladislas Tuleski? You are, no doubt, aware that he is a suspect.”

I smiled as I thought of my friend’s airy impulsiveness and almost butterfly repudiation of responsibility. “I am surprised he should be suspected of doing anything seriously.”

“He is,” was the snappy reply. “And his friends are naturally objects of interest just now. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I heard of him last in London.”

“And you are from London? It is at least a coincidence. Do you know Count Peter Valdemar?”

“I believe I met him once.” I remembered that I had seen him at my friend’s hotel in London.

“Another coincidence,” he returned drily. There was a pause during which he regarded me fixedly, pretty much as though I were a criminal. “You would perhaps, like to shew me all your papers, to satisfy me of the truth of your story.”

That was what an American would call “the limit.”

I got up and opened the door. “I have told you the truth and I don’t allow any man to question my word. You’d better go before I lose my temper.”

I stood six feet without bootheels; I had been the heaviest number five in my college eight that Corpus had had for years; and was in the pink of condition. He saw that I meant business and rose.

“I don’t question your word,” he began.

“Are you going?”

He went out into the corridor. “We shall probably require you to come to Warsaw.”

“If you wish to arrest me do it, and be hanged to you.”

“You mustn’t talk like that, and had better leave Bratinsk. So long as you stay here you will be under surveillance--” the rest of his sentence was lost, for I slammed the door in his face.

The attempt at any kind of surveillance over my movements would drive me out of Bratinsk like a shot; and I should have been much more annoyed by the incident but for the fact that I had been daily expecting my visit to be brought to a close by the weather. I had been very lucky to hit such an open season; but it was late in December, and the snow was so long overdue that by leaving at once I should miss very little sport.

I determined to go, therefore. I had a pig-sticking fixed for the following day; and that should be the last.

It was not at all unlikely, too, that Warsaw would afford me some excitement. The papers were full of hints about impending troubles from the strikers and revolutionary party, consequent upon the ominous unrest in St. Petersburg; and I settled that I might as well go there for a couple of days to see the fun, and then rush home for Christmas.

With this plan in my thoughts I strolled up to the railway station to see about trains.

As I reached the building the stationmaster, a very busy little official, named Blauben, came running up to me.

“Ah, mister, mister,”--he knew this one word of English and thought it the correct way to address an Englishman--“you can do me a service. I beg of you. I am in sore perplexity.”

“What is the matter?”