"Will your Highness have the goodness to give me the address to which you wish to be driven?" inquired the manager, deferentially, as he took the opposite seat.
With some little difficulty Petroff remembered the obscure quarter of the city in which he lived, and repeated the name and number of the street. Mr. Gorshine heard the answer in amazement, convinced that there must be some mistake. His companion, however, showed such an inclination to become argumentative that he finally decided to humour him, and they set off for the address indicated.
At the end of half an hour's drive the cab stopped in front of a squalid-looking house in a mean little side-street, far removed from the fashionable quarter of the city.
"It's all right," declared Petroff, glancing out of the window. "Here we are. Don't let my wife get angry with me. Tell her it wasn't my fault."
The jeweller smiled reassuringly, as the other clung to his arm and led the way up a steep flight of stairs. At the top floor Petroff stopped and fumbled with his latch-key.
"Don't wake my wife," he whispered.
As he spoke, however, the door was flung suddenly open, and an elderly woman, brandishing a stick, rushed out into the passage.
"There you are, then, you wicked old drunkard!" she exclaimed, shrilly. "I'll give you something for stopping out all this time. See if I don't!"
"Please don't let her hit me," shrieked Petroff, trying to hide behind his companion.
"Pardon me, madam, but his Highness is unwell," protested the jeweller, quite at a loss to account for this extraordinary reception.