The world whizzed about him as he went through the form of searching his suit-case; but he showed only a perplexed, annoyed face when he looked up.
“We must have left it out altogether, Mary,” he said, speaking in Russian for the sake of the captain.
“How provoking!” cried she, likewise in Russian.
But this play-acting, good though it was, was not enough to counterbalance “orders.” “I’ve got nothing to do with forgotten passports,” said the captain. He seized her arm. “You’ll have to come with me!”
She gave Drexel a quick look. But he did not need it. Already he was on his feet.
“Don’t you dare touch my wife!” he cried, and he furiously flung the captain’s hand away.
The captain glared. “I’ll do what—”
“You won’t!” snapped Drexel. He pressed his chest squarely against that of the officer. “You dare touch my wife—the wife of an American citizen—and see what happens to you when I make my complaint! It will be the worst mistake of your life! As for this passport business, as soon as we get to Petersburg I shall fix it up with the chief of police.” He pointed at the door. “Now—you leave us!”
The captain looked at the broad-shouldered young fellow, with the determined face and the flashing eyes. Looked and hesitated, for Drexel’s dominant bearing was not only the bearing of wrathful innocence, but it was eloquent of power to carry out his threat.
The captain wavered, then broke. “I hope monsieur will excuse——”