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nation—as if owning himself foiled for once by the simplicity of a true story.
“I can make nothing of the fellow,” he said in Russ, turning to the secretary: “what to do?”
“I don’t see what you can do but visé the passport; I scarcely think it advisable to dishonour the English ambassador’s pass except in extreme cases.”
“This is an extreme case.”
“Scarcely: your Excellency has no proof.”
“But there is strong suspicion.”
“Exactly; and therefore I would affix the private mark of suspicion to the passport.”
Accordingly, my passport was countersigned and returned to me; and I hurried back to the steamer. I found it still at the quay, puffing and snorting, and evidently waiting for me. It was with inexpressible satisfaction and relief that I stepped again on deck, and received the congratulations of the captain and my fellow-passengers, to whom I told my story by way of apology for detaining them beyond the proper time. So far I had triumphed; but I had overheard enough to make me dubious of the final result. “The private mark of suspicion!”—those terribly mysterious words kept haunting me all the way to Cronstadt. How much might they imply? I knew that they portended something unpleasant: I afterwards ascertained that they might involve Siberia and the knout. I examined the passport at leisure, and tried to detect the private mark of suspicion. I could see nothing. It might be in the form of one of the letters; or it might be in the flourish at the end of the Baron’s signature. I studied the document as I have never studied any similar document before or since. But at last I gave up the attempt in despair.
PART II. SHOWING WHAT BECAME OF IT.
