“Such times, such times,” he sighed. “Who would have thought it possible? You live in Petrograd, Michael Ivanitch?”
“Yes.”
“You are in service, perhaps?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Yours must have been an interesting occupation,” I remarked, “in days gone by.”
“You mean?”
“You were connected with the police, were you not?”
I saw at once I had made a faux pas. The little man turned very red. “I beg your pardon,” I hastened to add, “I understood you were an official of the ohrana.”
This apparently was still worse. The little Policeman sat up very straight, flushing deeply and looking rather like a turkey-cock.