I was escorted down the stairs by all the household servants, weeping and struggling to kiss my face and hands; it might have been my own funeral with me to watch it. The officer frowned and hurried on the proceedings.
Once outside the gate, he collected his forces—four Cossacks and four policemen.
There was a bearded man sitting outside the gate, who asked the officer if he might now go home.
“Be off!” said Miller.
“Who is that?” I asked, as I took my seat in the cab.
“He is a witness: you know that the police must take a witness with them when they make an entrance into a private house.”
“Is that why you left him outside?”
“A mere formality,” said Miller; “it’s only keeping the man out of his bed for nothing.”
Our cab started, escorted by two mounted Cossacks.