of an inner room. As he did so, there struck me something
strangely familiar in his gait and figure. Conceal it as
he might, there was still the stiff wooden movement of
a Prussian general beneath his assumed swagger. The poise
of his head still seemed to suggest the pointed helmet
of the Prussian. I could without effort imagine a military
cloak about his shoulders instead of his Bolshevik
sheepskin.

Then, all in a moment, as he re-entered the room, I
recalled exactly who he was.

"My friend," I said, reaching out my hand, "pardon me
for not knowing you at once. I recognize you now..."

"Hush," said the Bolshevik. "Don't speak! I never saw
you in my life."

"Nonsense," I said, "I knew you years ago in Canada when
you were disguised as a waiter. And you it was who
conducted me through Germany two years ago when I made
my war visit. You are no more a Bolshevik than I am. You
are General Count Boob von Boobenstein."

The general sank down in his chair, his face pale beneath
its plaster of rouge.

"Hush!" he said. "If they learn it, it is death."

"My dear Boob," I said, "not a word shall pass my lips."