Drexel took the pad. She had called him John. So without hesitation he wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. John Davis, New York, U. S. A.” As he wrote he heard the rasping of the lock of the connecting door, and looking about he saw that “Mrs. John Davis” had entered.
He handed back the pad. “Thank you,” said the porter. “And will monsieur oblige us with his and madame’s passports?”
For a moment Drexel stood nonplussed. In the excitement of the last fifteen minutes he had completely forgotten one great essential fact—that no person can stay over night in a Russian hotel, or sleep as a guest in a private house, without sending his passport to police headquarters to be registered.
For the moment he knew not what to say. It was the young woman who saved the situation. She came forward calmly.
“Our passports are in our bag,” she said in her broken Russian, motioning to Drexel’s suit-case. “As soon as we have unpacked, monsieur will bring down our passports in person.”
“Very well,” said the porter, and closed the door.
Drexel looked at her in dismay. “I had forgotten all about passports!”
“So had I. But I thought of them the instant you left me. I knew what was wanted the moment I heard the knock.”
“If we only had a passport for you!”
“I had unexpectedly to turn mine over as a credential to gain admission to—to—a certain place this afternoon. I had no time to get it back.”