"All right," muttered Petroff. "I'm a general."
"Certainly, your Highness; but this is closing time."
The vodka mounted to Petroff's brain, and he began to get angry.
"Go to the devil!" he shouted, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I'm a general, I tell you. I want a drink. If you don't let me have one I'll put you all in prison!"
"Oh, pray forgive me!" exclaimed the manager, regretting his boldness. "I did not mean to inconvenience your Excellency. I merely wished to point out that it is closing time, and that perhaps you would like to return home."
A gleam of intelligence crept into Petroff's eyes.
"Yes, I want to go home," he murmured. "I want to see my wife."
"Then pray permit me to escort you. I will send for a carriage at once."
"All right," was the sulky response.
Although the keen night air sweeping up the open street sobered him a little, Petroff was still somewhat unsteady on his feet. Mr. Gorshine and a couple of assistants, however, managed to get him into a cab.