A magnificently uniformed young officer stepped into the room, followed by three gendarmes with drawn sabres. The officer inclined his head slightly, and said: “Herr Veinricht, ich glaube?”
His was not the voice that I had heard through the door, gruff and trombone-like, but a much softer voice, and much higher in pitch. Somehow it did not seem altogether the voice of a stranger to me, and yet the face of a stranger his face emphatically was—a very florid face, surmounted by a growth of short red hair, and decorated by a bristling red moustache. His eyes were overhung by bushy red eyebrows, and, in the uncertain candlelight, I could not make out their colour.
“Yes, I am Herr Veinricht,” I admitted, resigning myself to this German version of my name.
“English?” he questioned curtly.
“No, not English—American.”
“Macht nichts! I arrest you in the name of the Grand Duchess.”
“Arrest me! Will you be good enough to inform me upon what charge?”
“Upon the charge of consorting with dangerous characters, and being an enemy to the tranquillity of the State. You will please to dress as quickly as possible. A carriage awaits you below.”
“Good Lord! they have somehow connected me with Sebastian Roch,” I groaned inwardly. And I began to put certain finishing touches to my toilet.
“No, no,” cried the officer. “You must put on your dress-suit. Can you be so ignorant of criminal etiquette as not to know that State prisoners are required to wear their dress-suits?”