Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked: “I beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming to-morrow, as was arranged. I haven’t the money ready for you.” Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger: “You asked me to come in a week, and I’ve come in a week. You don’t expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. You’ve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.” He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly: “It is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.” “What do you mean it isn’t up?” said Ostrov. “I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French fashion? You won’t come off so easily.” “You came here on Wednesday,” replied Trirodov. “And this is why I haven’t the money ready for you.” Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation. He looked at Trirodov with some perplexity, and showed his irritation. “What do you mean by saying that you haven’t it ready? Why should you get it ready? All you’ve got to do is to take it out of your safe, count it out, and give it to me--that’s the whole method of procedure. It isn’t as if it were a lot of money--it’s a mere trifle.” “It may be a trifle for some people. It isn’t at all a trifle for me,” said Trirodov. “Don’t pretend that you’re poor! Some one might think you were a forsaken orphan! What do you expect us to believe?” Trirodov rose from his seat, looked with stern intentness into Ostrov’s eyes, and said resolutely: “In a word, I can’t give you the money to-day. Try to come here to-morrow about this time.” Ostrov rose involuntarily from his chair. He experienced a strange sensation, as if he were being lifted from his seat by his collar and forcibly led to the door. He fired his parting shot: “Only don’t think that you can pull wool over my eyes to-morrow. I’m not the sort of a chap whom you can feed on promises.” His small eyes gleamed malignantly. His broad jaws trembled savagely. His feet seemed to carry him to the door of themselves. “No,” answered Trirodov, “I do not intend to fool you. You will get your money tomorrow.” * * * * * Ostrov came at the same hour next evening. This time he was led into Trirodov’s study. “Well,” asked Ostrov rather impudently, “do you mean to give me the money? Or will you play the same farce once more?” Trirodov pulled a bundle of bank-notes out of a drawer in his writing-table, and said as he gave them to Ostrov: “Please count them. There should be two thousand.” Ostrov whistled and said gruffly: “That’s too little. I asked for much more.” “That’s all you’ll get,” said Trirodov resolutely. “It ought to last you quite a while.”