That was all there was to the incident—then. I returned to Gross Lichterfelde the next morning, and proceeded to think no more of the matter. Nor did it come to my mind when a few weeks later, I was suddenly summoned to Berlin, and driven, with one of my instructors, to a private house in a street I did not know. (It was the Wilhelmstrasse, and the residence stood next to Number 75, the Foreign Office. It was the house Berlin speaks of as Samuel Meyer’s _Bude_—in other words, the private offices of the Chancellor and His Imperial Majesty.) We entered a room, bare save for a desk or two and a portrait of Wilhelm I, where my escort surrendered me to an official, who silently surveyed me, comparing his observations with a paper he held, which apparently contained my personal measurements. Later a photograph was taken of me, and then I was bidden to wait. I waited for several hours, it seemed to me, before a second official appeared—a large, round-faced man, soldierly despite his stoutness—who greeted my escort politely and, taking a photograph from his pocket, proceeded to scrutinize me carefully. After a moment he turned to my escort. “Has he any identifying marks on his body?” he asked. My escort assured him that there were none. “Good!” he exclaimed; and a moment later we were driving back toward Gross Lichterfelde—I quite at sea about the whole affair, but not daring to ask questions about it. Idle curiosity was not encouraged among cadets. I was not to remain in ignorance for long, however. A few days later I was ordered to pack my clothing, and with it was transferred to a quiet hotel on the Dorotheen Strasse. The hotel was not far from the War Academy, and there I was placed under the charge of an exasperatingly puttering tutor, who strove to perfect me on but three points. He insisted that my French be impeccable; he made me study the private and detailed history of a certain Russian house; and he was most particular about the way I walked and ate, about my knowledge of Russian ceremonies and customs—in a word, about my deportment in general. The weeks passed. At last, by dint of much hard work, I became sufficiently expert in my studies to satisfy my tutor. I was taken back to the house on the Wilhelmstrasse, where the round-faced man again inspected me. He talked with me at length in French, made me walk before him and asked me innumerable questions about the family history of the house I had been studying. Finally he drew a photograph from his pocket—the same, I fancy, which had figured in our previous interview. “Do you recognize this face?” he inquired, offering me the picture. I started. It might have been my own likeness. But no! That uniform was never mine. Then in a moment I realized the truth and with the realization the whole mystery of the last few weeks began to be clear to me. The photograph was a portrait of the young Prince Z——; my double, whom I had served at the banquet.