“Perhaps you will add a trifle,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile. “I can’t,” said Trirodov coldly. “I can’t leave town on this money,” said Ostrov in a threatening voice. Trirodov frowned, and looked sternly at Ostrov. New thoughts began to take shape in his mind, and he said: “You won’t find it to your advantage to remain, and everything you do here will be known to me.” “Very well, I’ll go away,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile. He took the money, counted it carefully, and put it into his greasy pocket. He was about to take his leave, but Trirodov detained him. “Don’t go yet. We’ll have a talk.” At the same instant a quiet boy in his white clothes appeared from some dark corner. He paused behind Trirodov’s chair, and looked at Ostrov. His wide dark eyes, looking out of his pale face, brought Ostrov into a state of painful dread. He lowered himself slowly into the chair near the writing-table. His head felt giddy. Then a strange mood of nonchalance and submission took possession of him. His face bore an expression of apathetic readiness to do everything that he might be commanded to do by some one stronger than himself--whose will had conquered his. Trirodov looked attentively at Ostrov and said: “Well, tell me what I want to know. I wish to hear from your own lips what you are doing here, and what you are up to. You couldn’t have done much in such a short time, but you surely have found out something. Speak!” Ostrov sniggered rather stupidly, fidgeted as if he were sitting on springs, and said: “Very well, I’ll tell you something interesting and won’t charge you a penny for it.” Trirodov, without taking off his heavy, fixed gaze from Ostrov’s face, repeated: “Speak!” The quiet boy looked with his eyes full of intense questioning straight into Ostrov’s eyes. “Do you know who killed the Chief of Police?” asked Ostrov. Trirodov was silent. Ostrov’s whole body twitched as he kept up his absurd sniggering. “He killed him and went away,” went on Ostrov. “He made his escape by taking advantage of the confusion and the darkness, as the newspapers would say. The police have not caught him to this day, and the authorities do not even know who he is.” “And do you know?” asked Trirodov in a cold, deliberate voice. “I know, but I won’t tell you,” replied Ostrov rather venomously. “You shall tell me,” said Trirodov with conviction. Then he added in even a more loud, determined, and commanding voice: “Tell me, who killed the Chief of Police?” Ostrov fell back into his chair. His red face became tinged with a sudden grey pallor. His eyes, now bloodshot, half closed like those of a prostrate doll with the eye mechanism in its stomach. There was witheredness, almost lifelessness, in Ostrov’s voice: “Poltinin.” “Your friend?” asked Trirodov. “Well, go on.” “He is now being sought for,” went on Ostrov in the same lifeless way. “Why did Poltinin kill the Chief of Police?” Ostrov resumed his stupid snigger, and said: