Drexel walked to one of the long windows and gazed down into the bright street through which those absurd-looking yet comfortable little sleighs, the winter cabs of Russia, were still whizzing to and fro. Less than three hours had passed since the young woman had entered his compartment, and hardly more than a quarter since this strange adventure had taken a new turn by sending them together to the Hotel Metropole. Dazed, tingling, he began dimly to wonder what they would do on the morrow, and what was to be the outcome of it all. But his thoughts were not to be completed. He had been in the room no more than a couple of minutes when a rap sounded at his hall door. He opened it and there stood a hotel porter. The porter held out a pad of paper. “Will monsieur please write his and madame’s name for the registry?” Drexel took the pad. She had called him John. So without hesitation he wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. John Davis, New York, U. S. A.” As he wrote he heard the rasping of the lock of the connecting door, and looking about he saw that “Mrs. John Davis” had entered. He handed back the pad. “Thank you,” said the porter. “And will monsieur oblige us with his and madame’s passports?” For a moment Drexel stood nonplussed. In the excitement of the last fifteen minutes he had completely forgotten one great essential fact--that no person can stay over night in a Russian hotel, or sleep as a guest in a private house, without sending his passport to police headquarters to be registered. For the moment he knew not what to say. It was the young woman who saved the situation. She came forward calmly. “Our passports are in our bag,” she said in her broken Russian, motioning to Drexel’s suit-case. “As soon as we have unpacked, monsieur will bring down our passports in person.” “Very well,” said the porter, and closed the door. Drexel looked at her in dismay. “I had forgotten all about passports!” “So had I. But I thought of them the instant you left me. I knew what was wanted the moment I heard the knock.” “If we only had a passport for you!” “I had unexpectedly to turn mine over as a credential to gain admission to--to--a certain place this afternoon. I had no time to get it back.” “They have your passport! Can’t they trace you through that?” She shook her head. “It was a false passport.” “What can we do now?” “I must leave, somehow.” “Then I leave, too!” cried Drexel. “I cannot let you risk yourself further.” “You cannot prevent me!” “But you must have guessed that that gendarme captain is not the only man searching for me.” “I don’t care if there are a hundred!” he cried recklessly. She looked at him queerly a moment. “By this time,” she remarked quietly, “I dare say there are fifty thousand.” “Fifty thousand!” he slowly ejaculated, and stared at her. “Then,” cried he, “all the greater is your need for passing as an American! They have a description of you?” “I’m sure they cannot have a clear one.”