I wonder now that I did not at once guess his identity, though he gave me no clue to it.
When he ascertained that I was an American, who had travelled considerably and was now bound for Russia, he plied me with shrewd questions, which showed that he had a pretty wide knowledge of social and political matters in most European countries, though he had never been in the States.
“This is your first visit to Russia?” he inquired, presently. “No?”
I explained that I had spent a winter in Petersburg some years back, and had preserved very pleasant memories of it.
“I trust your present visit may prove as pleasant,” he said courteously. “Though you will probably perceive a great difference. Not that we are in the constant state of excitement described by some of the foreign papers,” he added with a slight smile. “But Petersburg is no longer the gay city it was, ‘Paris by the Neva’ as we used to say. We—”
He checked himself and rose as the train pulled up for the few minutes’ halt at Konigsberg; and with a slight salute turned and passed through the guarded doorway.
“Can you tell me that officer’s name?” I asked the conductor, as I retreated to the rear car.
“You know him as well as I do,” he answered ambiguously, pocketing the tip I produced.
“I don’t know his name.”