“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.