“What is a vagrant?” repeated Piotr in confusion. “What a question!” “Well, sir, you have permitted yourself to use the word, and I’m rather interested to know in what sense you’ve used it in its application to me.” Piotr, annoyed at being disconcerted by the stranger’s question, said sharply: “A vagrant is one who roams about without shelter and without money and obtrudes upon others instead of attending to his own business.” “Thank you for the definition,” said Ostrov with a bow. “It is true that I have but little money and that I’m compelled to roam about--such is the nature of my profession.” “What is your profession?” asked Piotr. Ostrov bowed with dignity and said: “I’m an actor!” “I doubt it,” said Piotr once more sharply, “you look more like a detective.” “You are mistaken,” said Ostrov in a flustered way. Piotr turned away from him. “Let us go home at once,” he said to the sisters. CHAPTER X It was growing dark. Ostrov was approaching Trirodov’s gates. His face betrayed agitation. It was even more clear now than by daylight that life had used him hardly. He felt painfully timid in going to Trirodov, in whom he evidently had certain hopes. Before Ostrov could make up his mind to ring the bell at the gates he walked the entire length of the stone wall that surrounded Trirodov’s house and garden and examined it attentively, without learning anything. Only the entire length of the tall wall was before his eyes. It was already quite dark when Ostrov stopped at last at the main gate. The half-effaced figures and old heraldic emblems held his attention for a moment only. He had already taken hold of the brass bell-handle and paused cautiously, as if it were his habit to reconsider at the last moment; he gave a sudden shiver. A clear, childish voice behind his back uttered quietly: “Not here.” Ostrov looked on both sides timidly, half stealthily, bending his head low and letting it sink between his shoulders. Quite close by a pale, blue-eyed boy dressed in white was standing and eyeing him with intent scrutiny. “They won’t hear you here. Every one has left,” he said. “Where is one to ring?” Ostrov asked harshly. The boy pointed his finger to the left; it was a slow, graceful gesture. “Ring at the small gate there.” He ran off so quickly and quietly it seemed as if he had not been there. Ostrov went in the direction indicated. He came to a high, narrow gate. A white electric bell-button shone in a round wooden recess. Ostrov rang and listened. He could hear somewhere the rapid shivering tones of a tiny bell. Ostrov waited. The door did not open. Ostrov rang once more. It was quiet behind the door. “I wonder how long there’s to wait?” he grumbled, then gave a shout: “Hey, you in there!”