Inwardly, I noted the explanation of the visiting card in the portfolio
in my pocket.

At the station we found two orderlies, one with my things, the other
with von Boden's luggage and fur _pélisse_. The platforms were now
deserted save for sentries: all life at this dreary frontier station
seemed to die with the passing of the mail train.

I could not help noticing, after we had left the car and were strolling
up and down the platform waiting for the special, that my companion kept
casting furtive glances at my feet. I looked down at my boots: they
wanted brushing, certainly, but otherwise I could see nothing wrong with
them. They were brown, it is true, and I reflected that the German man
about town has a way of regulating his tastes in footgear by the
calendar, and that brown boots are seldom worn in Germany after
September 1st.

Our special came in, an engine and tender, a brakesman's van, a single
carriage and a guard's van. The stationmaster bid us a most ceremonious
adieu, and the guard, cap in hand, helped me into the train.

It was a Pullman car in which I found myself, with comfortable
arm-chairs and small tables. One of the orderlies was laying the table
for luncheon, and here, presently, the young Count and I ate a meal,
which, save for the inevitable "_Kriegsbrod_," showed few signs of the
stringency of the British blockade. But by this time I had fully
realized that, for some unknown reason, no pains were spared to do me
honour, so probably the fare was something out of the common.

My companion was a bright, amusing fellow and delightfully typical of