“I suppose so.”
Kopeikin buttoned up his overcoat collar. “To give you only one example …
“During the last war an Austrian friend of mine was returning to Berlin from Zürich, where he had been doing some business. He sat in the train with a man who said that he was a Swiss from Lugano. They talked a lot on the journey. This Swiss told my friend about his wife and his children, his business, and his home. He seemed a very nice man. But soon after they had crossed the frontier, the train stopped at a small station and soldiers came on with police. They arrested the Swiss. My friend had also to leave the train as he was with the Swiss. He was not alarmed. His papers were in order. He was a good Austrian. But the man from Lugano was terrified. He turned very pale and cried like a child. They told my friend afterwards that the man was not a Swiss but an Italian spy and that he would be shot. My friend was upset. You see, one can always tell when a man is speaking about something he loves, and there was no doubt that all that this man had said about his wife and children was true: all except one thing-they were in Italy instead of Switzerland. War,” he added solemnly, “is unpleasant.”
“Quite so.” They had stopped outside the Adler-Palace Hotel. “Will you come in for a drink?”
Kopeikin shook his head. “It is kind of you to suggest it, but you must get some sleep. I feel guilty now at having kept you out so late, but I have enjoyed our evening together.”
“So have I. I’m very grateful to you.”
“A great pleasure. No farewells now. I shall take you to the station in the morning. Can you be ready by ten?”
“Easily.”
“Then good night, my dear fellow.”
“Good night, Kopeikin.”