“Pay for them, then. I’m Petrovitch.”
The Captain started, shook himself, and peered drunkenly into my face.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Read that then.”
I drew out the passport, and spread it before him. The Russian spelled his way through it, and nodded solemnly at the end.
“Yes, that’s all right. You must be Petrovitch, I suppose. But you don’t look like him.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was disguised. I had to clear out in a hurry. Some one’s been denouncing me to Nicholas.”
Vassileffsky looked frightened. His eye sought the door, as though he no longer felt at ease in my company.
“You needn’t be afraid,” I assured him. “No one suspects you.”
“Well, what do you want?” he asked sullenly.