“Well, he can get one at the Consul-General’s office,” my friend answered, without removing his cigarette. “I’ll give you a note, if you like.”
“No,” I said. “First, it is not a man who is going, but a woman; and, secondly, I want a passport viséd by the Embassy in a name other than the real name of its bearer.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed suspiciously, glancing straight at me. “Something shady, oh? Who’s the woman?”
“Well, she’s hardly a woman yet,” I answered. “A pretty girl who has lost her father and desires to return to her friends in St Petersburg.”
“What’s her name?”
“You know her,” I said slowly. “I came to you on her behalf some time ago when a warrant was out for the arrest of her and her father. I—”
“Of course, I quite remember,” he answered quickly, interrupting me. “Anton Korolénko escaped with his daughter, that ingenious little nymph, Sonia, who came and pitched you a long, almost idyllic yarn, and you came here to intercede. I did as you requested and secured their freedom by endorsing the report of the agent of police told off to watch them by a statement that both father and daughter were dead. I then kept my promise by returning the warrant, but I tell you I narrowly escaped getting into a devil of a scrape about it.”
“But you can manage to give me a false passport for her, can’t you?” I urged.
“Where’s her father? If he goes back their whole game will be given away.”
“Her father is dead,” I answered.