The three men contemplated it in silence, and the other guests
turned curious glances towards it. Dumnoff, as usual, laughed hoarsely.
"Rather the worse for wear," he observed.
"Kreuzmillionendonnerwetter! That is my Gigerl!" roared a deep German
voice across the room.
The three Russians started and looked round quickly. One of the porters, a
burly man with an angry scowl on his honest face, was already on his legs
and was striding towards the table.
"That is my Gigerl!" he repeated, laying one heavy hand upon the board,
and thrusting the forefinger of the other under the doll's nose.
Dumnoff stared at him with an expression which showed that he did not in
the least understand what was happening. Johann Schmidt's keen black eyes
looked wonderingly from the porter to the Count, while the latter leaned
back in his chair, contemplating the angry man with a calm surprise which
proved how little faith he placed in the assertion of possession.
"You are under a mistake," he said, with great politeness. "This doll is
the property of Herr Fischelowitz, the well-known tobacconist, and has
stood in the window of his shop nearly four months. These gentlemen"--he
waved his hand towards his two companions--"are well aware of the fact and
can vouch--"
"That is all the same to me," interrupted the porter. "This is the Gigerl
which was stolen from me on New Year's eve--"
"I repeat," said the Count, with dignity, "that you are altogether
mistaken.
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