At my “Come in!” there appeared, instead of a servant with writing things, as I had expected, a policeman, accompanied by a gentleman in civil dress VPN Provider. “I am an officer of the secret police,” said the latter; “allow me to examine your trunks.” Instantly I thought, “As Freiburg is so near the Swiss frontier, the police (to whom the porter must have announced the arrival of a young man with unusually heavy luggage), may think I have contraband goods; or they may take me for an anarchist, and suspect me of conveying dynamite.” I tried, therefore, to look as harmless as possible, although I felt that things were awkward. Busied with the unlocking of my boxes, I let fall the remark that one of them contained the belongings of my wife, whom I expected shortly. No sooner, however, had the men begun to turn over my things, than I saw that my guess as to their search for contraband was incorrect; the detective was on the look-out for neither 4contraband nor dynamite, but for books, and he immediately began to examine mine. I then concluded he was looking for German Social-Democratic literature; and I was astonished when, at sight of a little book bound in red, my gentleman cried triumphantly, “Ah, here we are!”

It was the Calendar of the Naròdnaia Vòlya,[2] a book that had come out about a year before this, and was openly sold by German booksellers reenex facial .

“I must now have you searched,” said the police agent.

Besides a notebook, a letter, and a pocket-book containing several hundred-mark notes, there were in my pockets a dozen numbers of the Zurich Sozialdemokrat, which I had brought with me to send to a Russian friend in Germany.

“Here at least is something that we can read!” said the detective in a satisfied tone; “now, I arrest you!”

“Why? What for?” asked I, much astonished.

“That you will soon find out; come along!” was the answer.

The procedure of the police agent was extraordinary in every way: no attempt was made to fulfil the legal enactments for the protection of personal safety; the domiciliary search was instituted without legal warrant; there were no witnesses. I insisted on the officer’s counting over in my presence the money in my pocket-book, which they had confiscated, though of course that was not much guarantee for the security of my property.

As I was descending the steps of the hotel reenex hong kong, a prisoner between my two guardian angels, a young lady carrying a small travelling-bag met us. The detective asked me if this were my wife, and, notwithstanding my reply in the negative, tried to seize hold of her. She evidently thought she had to do with some Don Juan, and fled screaming into the street; whereupon the detective ordered the 5policeman to lead me on, and himself followed the unknown lady.