"What matter! When I released the said little fury I perceived that my Vladimir order had disappeared with her."
"Upon my word! It is a pretty story!" cried Araktseieff, springing up from his chair. "You have done for yourself. Did I not say that some nice mess had brought you here? Lose your order! Let it be stolen from you by a street wench! Do you know the girl?"
"Yes; she is a street dancer—Diabolka, the gypsy girl."
"A gypsy, eh?" broke in Sujukin at that moment. "That's it! Just what might have been expected from Pushkin's verses. Ah! I can generally see through things!"
"Did you put the police at once upon her track?" asked Araktseieff.
"As though the police were to be found at once, or, to put it the other way, as though our police were likely to find any one at once! Oh, it is not lost! The gypsy or the Vladimir order will be found fast enough in Appraxin Dwor. But that's no use to me. I want to wear the order to-night; for I dare not appear without it at the state concert."
"Well, my boy, no power but death shall separate me from mine."
"Then I see no way out of it. I have tried to obtain one from the State Treasurer; but the Czar keeps the key of the order safe himself; so nothing is to be done there. It is enough to make a fellow blow his brains out!"
"Well, well, here is an idea; but, mind, I take no responsibility for it. Are you on good terms with the Czar's groom of the chambers?"
"Oh yes, excellent! We meet constantly—under the table!"