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. "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. Mme. Petroff burst into a peal of derisive laughter. "Unwell, is he?" she retorted. "He'll be worse presently, I can promise you!" Then her eyes fell on the magnificent uniform her husband was wearing. [Illustration: "'PLEASE DON'T LET HER HIT ME,' SHRIEKED PETROFF, TRYING TO HIDE BEHIND HIS COMPANION."] "What drunken freak is this?" she cried. "How dare you dress up as an officer, you silly old guy?" Mr. Gorshine's face grew suddenly pale. "I beg you not to be angry with his Highness," he exclaimed. "His adjutants, Major Romanoff and Captain Marckovitch, will probably be here directly." Mme. Petroff snorted indignantly. "I believe you're drunk, too. Since when, pray, has my husband been a Highness? He was Petroff, the bootmaker, this morning." Mr. Gorshine sank into a chair, overwhelmed with horror. "What?" he gasped, as soon as he found his breath. "Is not this his Highness Prince Savanoff, the famous general?"