“Fly! fly!” urged the man, with a look of alarm upon his face; “fly for Vera Seroff’s sake!”
“What has she to do with this?” I asked eagerly.
“You know, m’sieur; you know. It will place her in deadly peril if you are arrested. Fly, while there is still time.”
“But the police cannot touch me; I have no fear of them,” I remarked, just as a thought suddenly occurred to me.
Where was my passport, that paper without which no one in Russia is safe, not even Russians themselves? I took up my coat and felt in the inner pocket where I constantly kept it.
It was gone!
My valise, the pockets of other coats, every hole and corner I investigated, but found it not. It was evidently lost or stolen!
Then a thought crossed my mind.
“Take our advice, m’sieur; dress and escape,” said Trosciansky, persuasively.
“No, I will not,” I cried angrily. “I see this is a plot to extort money—or something. My passport has been stolen, and I shall myself inform the police to-morrow, and also of my suspicions regarding this house.”