"And who stole it from you?" inquired the policeman with that acuteness in the art of cross-examination for which the police are in all countries so justly famous.
"Ja, Herr Wachtmeister, if I had known that—" suggested the porter.
"Of course, of course," interrupted the other. "That man stole the doll from you, you say?"
"Somebody stole it with my basket, as I stopped to drink a measure in the yard of the Hofbräuhaus, and I had to pay for it out of my caution money, and I lost my place into the bargain, and there lies the accursed thing."
The policeman, apparently quite satisfied with the porter's story, turned upon the Count with a blustering and overbearing manner.
"Now, then," he said, roughly, "give an account of yourself. Who are you and what are you doing here? But that is a foolish question; I know already that you are a Bohemian and a journeyman tinker."
"A Bohemian? And a journeyman tinker?" repeated the Count, almost speechless with anger for a moment. "I am neither," he added, endeavouring to control himself, and settling his refractory collar with one hand. "I am a Russian gentleman."
"A gentleman—and a Russian," said the policeman, slowly, as though putting no faith in the first statement and very little in the second. "I think I can provide you with a lodging for the night," he added, facetiously.
"Slip past me, jump out of the window and run!" whispered the Cossack in the Count's ear, in Russian.
"What are you saying in your infernal language?" asked the official.