Pyotr Stepanovitch was really angry; he turned positively green, but again he controlled himself. He got up and took his hat. "Is that fellow with you?" he brought out suddenly, in a low voice. "Yes." "That's good. I'll soon get him away. Don't be uneasy." "I am not uneasy. He is only here at night. The old woman is in the hospital, her daughter-in-law is dead. I've been alone for the last two days. I've shown him the place in the paling where you can take a board out; he gets through, no one sees." "I'll take him away soon." "He says he has got plenty of places to stay the night in." "That's rot; they are looking for him, but here he wouldn't be noticed. Do you ever get into talk with him?" "Yes, at night. He abuses you tremendously. I've been reading the 'Apocalypse' to him at night, and we have tea. He listened eagerly, very eagerly, the whole night." "Hang it all, you'll convert him to Christianity!" "He is a Christian as it is. Don't be uneasy, he'll do the murder. Whom do you want to murder?" "No, I don't want him for that, I want him for something different.... And does Shatov know about Fedka?" "I don't talk to Shatov, and I don't see him." "Is he angry?" "No, we are not angry, only we shun one another. We lay too long side by side in America." "I am going to him directly." "As you like." "Stavrogin and I may come and see you from there, about ten o'clock." "Do." "I want to talk to him about something important.... I say, make me a present of your ball; what do you want with it now? I want it for gymnastics too. I'll pay you for it if you like." "You can take it without." Pyotr Stepanovitch put the ball in the back pocket of his coat. "But I'll give you nothing against Stavrogin," Kirillov muttered after his guest, as he saw him out. The latter looked at him in amazement but did not answer. Kirillov's last words perplexed Pyotr Stepanovitch extremely; he had not time yet to discover their meaning, but even while he was on the stairs of Shatov's lodging he tried to remove all trace of annoyance and to assume an amiable expression. Shatov was at home and rather unwell. He was lying on his bed, though dressed. "What bad luck!" Pyotr Stepanovitch cried out in the doorway. "Are you really ill?" The amiable expression of his face suddenly vanished; there was a gleam of spite in his eyes. "Not at all." Shatov jumped up nervously. "I am not ill at all... a little headache..." He was disconcerted; the sudden appearance of such a visitor positively alarmed him.