“No, indeed. It is going to begin. The men in almost every factory and workshop in the city have struck work: every policeman is on duty, and the soldiers are being held in readiness. It will be a black day for Warsaw.”
“There will be violence, you mean?”
“Do men get together in thousands and tens of thousands just to shake hands with one another? You are not going out?”
“Indeed I am. I have a free day—my last possibly in Warsaw—and I wish to see matters for myself. Where are the strikers in force?”
At this moment a man who was sitting near the door rose and sauntered out, followed soon afterwards by a second. I marked them well; for I guessed they might be told off to shadow me.
“They are in force everywhere,” he replied. “Shall you be long away?”
“Come with me and show me things? One direction is as good as another for me.”
He drew me aside and lowered his voice to a whisper: “I am supposed to be following you, you know. But if you tell me when you’ll get back here, it will do.” Such a clever assumption of sincerity.
“Frankly, I don’t know.” I did not; but not for the reason I wished him to infer. “I may soon have had enough of it.” And with that I went to the door, glanced up and down the street, and then strolled off as though I had no purpose beyond the merest curiosity.
I soon perceived that I was being followed by the two men I had seen leave the hotel; and a well trained Russian sleuthhound can be very difficult to shake off. But I had a plan for doing this; and luck soon favoured me.