“If you’ll give me your word not to escape, I’ll take them off,” he replied, very sheepishly.
“Not for the world, now. I shall be able to tell the General how it feels to be dragged through the streets of Warsaw manacled like a felon.”
The two whispered together for some minutes, and then the Warsaw man said: “We’re not afraid of your escaping. I’ll take them off.”
I let him do it, of course. “A bit uncomfortable about it all, eh? It’s beginning to dawn on you at last that I’m not a dangerous revolutionary?” I said, as I rubbed my chafed wrists. “You’re only at the beginning of your lesson, though.”
“I have done no more than my duty,” he muttered.
“We shall see about that before the day’s over, my friend,” I answered sharply.
When we reached Warsaw I was driven to the police headquarters. I was expected, and after a few minutes I was taken to a room where some half dozen men were awaiting me, among them being the two who had brought me to Warsaw. The chief was sitting at a heavily bepapered table.
“Stand there,” he said, pointing to a spot opposite to him.
Two things were evident. The chief was a man high in authority—the deferential manner of the rest shewed this—and the proceedings were stage-managed with a view to impress me with the solemnity and seriousness of the occasion. I took my cue accordingly, and was as nonchalant as I could be. “Why stand?” I asked.
“You are a prisoner,” he rapped out, with a frown.