and jewelry in my hip pockets, assumed the aspect of a
wounded soldier and walked out. I barely reached Miasnitskaya Street
before an armored car full of working men and soldiers passed by at
about fifty miles an hour. Half a dozen bad faces looked at me. I
decided to continue calmly on my way, but I heard the car coming back
very soon sounding its siren. It stopped near me. "Come in, cavalry
man, there is a seat for one. They found somebody in Yousupov's
house."

I stopped and scratched my neck. "It cannot be done, I am going to the
hospital. If I am late, I won't have the bandage changed today. Could
you take me to the hospital on the Devitche Pole?"

"Are you crazy?" said the man at the wheel, looking at me with fury.
"Comrades, do you think I am going to drive so far for his rotten
wound?" and without asking for his friends' consent, he turned the
machine and continued on his way towards Yousupov's.

This was my first interview with Russia's rulers.

23

I was stopped four or five times on my way to Deviche Pole. I took
this route just to show those that might have watched me that I really
was going to the hospital. Then I thought I could take a street car
to a station and go somewhere south, to Tula, for instance, then wait
there for a while and afterwards reach Moscow again (they cannot keep
on shooting and shooting always, I reasoned) and thence to Tumen. So
I continued along Miasnitskaya. Near the Post Office some people
approached me. "Where to?" they asked, and a woman caught me by the
arm. I made a suffering face. "For Christ's sake," I exclaimed, "don't
touch me. I am wounded!" They let me go and stopped a long, young
fellow in student's uniform. I saw them drag the chap away regardless
of his protests. "Comrades! It is a mistake! I am a member of a local
committee...." he attempted to protest,--but the woman said he looked
like a suspicious plotter and they all disappeared in a side street.
Near Milutinsky a man in the cap of a chauffer stopped me again and
asked me to follow him. "Where?" I asked, but he did not reply and
invited me to follow with a slight and nothing-good-promising-smile.
"Follow!" he said.

Near a small church, there was a hardware store which we entered.
About ten people were sitting on the counter. Among them were three
street girls, if I might judge by their appearance and manners.
Without saying a word, they all came near me, two men got me by the
shoulders, two other