"Hush," said the count. "Don't mention him. He's here in
Berlin."

"What's he doing?" I asked.

"He's a Bolshevik; one of our leaders; he's just been
elected president of the Scavengers Union. They say he's
the very man for it. But come along, and, by the way,
when we get into the street talk English and only English.
There's getting to be a prejudice here against German."

We passed out of the door and through the spacious
corridors and down the stairways of the great building.
All about were little groups of ferocious looking men,
dressed like stage Russians, all chewing tobacco and
redolent of alcohol.

"Who are all these people?" I said to the count in a low
voice.

"Bolsheviks," he whispered. "At least they aren't really.
You see that group in the corner?

"The ones with the long knives," I said.

"Yes. They are, or at least they were, the orchestra of
the Berlin Opera. They are now the Bolshevik Music
Commission. They are here this morning to see about
getting their second violinist hanged."