The official scratched his head and frowned.
"That is strange. It is impossible that our checking system should err."
"But it has erred," roared Rowland. "It was this man himself who brought the bag here--this office which gave him the ticket. Is it not so?" to Drelich.
"That is true. A black bag, old, plastered with labels----"
"We never make mistakes," broke in the official with rising anger. "Our records show that this is your bag. You must take it."
Rowland could have laughed in the man's face, but instead he raised his voice again, while the fingers of Zoya Rochal closed upon his arm and he realized that a crowd was gathering.
"Will you not let this man look and see if he can discover my property?" he asked more quietly.
"Verboten," said the official shortly, and turning on his heel, walked back to the records of the system which could not err.
There seemed to be nothing to do but take the yellow suit-case to the cab and depart. Somewhat bewildered by this ill turn of fortune, which could not be explained Rowland took up the bag dejectedly and was about to lead the way to the door when he felt Zoya Rochal's fingers fiercely clutch his elbow. She stopped, her face blanching, her eyes staring wildly at a tall figure in a military uniform who stood before her.
The man was very erect and quite old, his face graven with innumerable fine wrinkles which just now had broken into a cynical smile.