There was contemptuous defiance in his voice. His eyes looked more insolent than ever. Trirodov frowned lightly and looked straight into Ostrov’s eyes, which were compelled to turn aside. “Come in,” said Trirodov. “Why didn’t you write and tell me that you wished to see me?” “How should I know that you were here?” growled Ostrov surlily. “Nevertheless, you found out,” said Trirodov, with a vexed smile. “Found out quite by accident on the float,” replied Ostrov. “Heard you mentioned in conversation. I don’t think you’ll care to know what they said.” He gave an insinuating smile. Trirodov merely said: “Come in. Follow me.” They ascended a narrow, very steep staircase with low, wide stairs; there were frequent turnings in various directions round all sorts of odd corners, interrupted by long landings between the climbs; each landing revealed a tightly shut door. The light was clear and unwavering. A cold gaiety and malice, a half-hidden, motionless irony, were in the gleam of the incandescent wires bent inside the glass pears. Some one walked behind with a light, cautious step. There were the clicking sounds of lights being extinguished; the passages they had just passed through were plunged in darkness. At last they reached the top of the stairway. They walked through a long corridor and found themselves in a large gloomy room. There was a sideboard against one of the walls and a table in the middle; cut-glass dishes rested along shelves around the room. It was to all appearances a dining-room. “It’s quite the proper thing to do,” grumbled Ostrov. “A meal would do me no harm.” The light was strangely distributed. Half of the room and half of the table were in the shadow. Two boys dressed in white waited at the table. Ostrov winked at them insolently. But they looked on calmly and departed quite simply. Trirodov settled himself in the dark part of the room. Ostrov sat down at the table. Trirodov began: “Well, what do you want of me?” “Now that’s a businesslike question,” answered Ostrov, with a hoarse laugh, “very much a business question, not so much a gracious as a businesslike question. What do I want? In the first place, I am delighted to see you. There is a certain bond between us--our childhood and all the rest of it.” “I’m very glad,” said Trirodov dryly. “I doubt it,” responded Ostrov impudently. “Then again, my dear chap, I’ve come for something else. In fact, you’ve guessed what I’ve come for. You’ve been a psychologist ever since I can remember.” “What is it you want?” asked Trirodov. “Can’t you guess?” said Ostrov, winking his eye. “No,” replied Trirodov dryly. “In that case there’s nothing left for me to do but to tell you straight: I need money.” He laughed hoarsely, unnaturally; then, pouring out a glass of wine, mumbled as he gulped it down: “Good wine.” “Every one needs money,” answered Trirodov coldly. “Where do you intend to get it?” Ostrov turned in his chair. He chuckled nervously and said: