From what we have since learned of Russian conditions, it seems very probable that, when the Hussar got to Moscow, he hunted up the circle of German spies who were operating there, reported for duty, and was taken care of.
"Well, what am I going to do—stay here for the rest of my life?" demanded the Hussar testily.
"Patience, my son," said the old man. "To-night there is another train—a scrubby little local train that runs back and forth across the border carrying the peasants and traders. No one pays any attention to that train. You will be on it when it goes out to-night."
When the local train left that night the Hussar was one of the passengers. The others were dirty, badly smelling Manchurian farmers.
But it carried him safely across the border and into China. Without further difficulty he made his way to America.
He was on his way to the Eastern coast and expected to take ship for Austria within a month. When his companion hinted that he would find it harder to get through the British blockade than to hoodwink the Russian officials, he winked. And sure enough, within three months the Westerner had received a card from him. He was back at his old table in the café of Peremysl, drinking cool concoctions from tall glasses.
(The foregoing stories are: (I) told in the New York Evening World; (II) told in the Los Angeles Times, and reprinted in the Literary Digest.)