The train moved off, and before I had got over my grumbling humour we were at Freiburg. It was between seven and eight in the evening. Landed on the platform, I looked out the porter of the Freiburger Hof, and gave him my luggage-check. He noticed at once that it showed the unusual weight of my boxes, and expressed his surprise thereat. To quiet any suspicion I told him at once unconcernedly that I was a student, and intended to study at Freiburg University, and that it was my books which made the trunks so heavy. The hotel was soon reached, and a room engaged, after which I betook myself to the restaurant for supper. As I passed by the buffet I saw the porter whispering earnestly with another man, apparently the landlord. Directly I had finished my meal the waiter brought me the visitors’ book; and as I had a Russian passport, lent me by a friend at the time of my flight from Russia, I at once signed myself in my friend’s name, “Alexander Bulìgin, of Moscow.” I then ordered writing materials and went to my room, but had barely shut the door behind me when there came a knock. 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. “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 contraband 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. Footnote 2: _Naròdnaia Vòlya_: literally, “the People’s Will,” the name of the chief revolutionary party in Russia at the time with which the narrative is now dealing, and also of its secretly printed newspaper.—_Trans._ “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.