“Who? There are many. That is something I do not want to talk about, Ilya. Hold your tongue,” and Rimsky picked up his glass and filled it again. Ilya drank with sad mien, turning over in his mind Rimsky’s statement that it was worth money to know where Kirsakoff lived. If that were true, Ilya argued to himself, he should have the money, for he knew where Kirsakoff lived with his daughter in an old log house in the outskirts of the city. “I don’t intend to hold my tongue,” Ilya announced. “What I want to know is who would pay money to know where Kirsakoff lives!” Rimsky was startled by the suddenness and vigor with which Ilya had put the matter before him. And Ilya leaned across the table, with a big and dirty fist thrust forward. “Who?” asked Rimsky. “Why do you ask me that? What is there to fight over? We are good friends—we are—you are friend to me, or——” Rimsky swayed in his chair and could not finish. He made an effort to rally his drugged brain, but slipped deeper into the chair and his eyes closed on him despite all he could do to keep them open. His right arm flopped across the table limply, as useless as a dead seal’s flipper. “Everybody knows where Michael Kirsakoff lives,” went on Ilya. “Why should any one pay money for what every one knows. That knowledge is not worth a beggar’s kopeck.” Ilya lied, but he sought to learn all he could before Rimsky got too deep into drunken slumber. “True,” muttered the befuddled Rimsky. “You talk true talk, Ilya Andreitch. But why do you fight with me when I can’t see? What did I say?” “You talked about there being money in knowing where Kirsakoff lived,” accused Ilya. Rimsky tried to remember why he had said any such thing. The matter must be as Ilya said—no one would give a beggar’s kopeck to know where Kirsakoff lived. For that matter, Rimsky cared about nothing. The world was a very pleasant place for all people said about bad times. He could feel himself slipping away into a delicious unconsciousness, and he talked aloud the thoughts which crossed his mind. “There is something wrong about this,” he confided to himself, unaware that Ilya could hear what was said. Then he went on, head on chest, and almost under the table, muttering into his whiskers. “The American officer—no, a Russian—well, the American officer—he wants to know where Michael lives. And he—will pay well. Didn’t he come to my place asking about the old Governor? And where did he go? Yes, the Dauria, I remember, even if I am drunk—to the Dauria, where the Bolsheviki smashed all the windows. I know. I remember the time my father’s cow fell in the river. Was Ilya there? No. How could Ilya be there—I am dreaming now. Let us all—be merry, for this is Carnival. Am I not a young man? That is right—dance—dance——” Rimsky began to snore softly. The gypsy girl came and grinned at Ilya, who reached out unsteadily and plucked the flame from the candle.