"Excuse me," said Zimin, passing his hand reassuringly before her face. "This is a serious matter." Then he said to Yevsey in a decided stern tone, "Young man, put your overcoat on. You must go home. And I, too, must go. Put your overcoat on." Yevsey smiled. He still felt empty and light. It was a pleasant sensation, but his eyes were dim, and the caustic tickling taste in his mouth came back again. He scarcely realized how he walked away, but he did not forget that all were silent, and no one said good-by to him. In the street Zimin nudged his shoulder, and said not aloud but emphatically: "I beg you not to come to my sister any more." "Why? Did I offend you?" asked Yevsey. "No, not in the least." "Why, then?" "Who are you?" "A peddler." "Then how do you know what I am, and that I am being followed?" "An acquaintance told me." "A spy?" "Yes." "So? And you are a spy, too?" "No," said Yevsey. But looking into Zimin's lean, pale face, he remembered the calm and dull sound of his voice, and without an effort corrected himself. "Yes, I, too." They walked a few steps in silence. "Well, go," said Zimin, suddenly halting. His voice sounded subdued and sorrowful. He shook his head strangely. "Go away." Yevsey leaned his back against the enclosure, and gazed at the man, blinking his eyes. Zimin, too, looked at Yevsey, shaking his right hand. "Why?" said Yevsey, in perplexity. "Didn't I tell you the truth? That you are being tracked?" "Well?" "And you are angry?" Zimin bent toward him, and poured a wave of hissing words upon Klimkov. "Yes, go to the devil! I know without you that they are tracking me. What's the matter? Is business going badly among you? Did you think you'd buy me? And betray people behind my back? Or did you want to throw a sop to your conscience? Go to hell! I say, go, or else I'll give you a black eye." Yevsey started from his leaning posture, and walked off. "Vermin!" he heard breathed behind him contemptuously. Klimkov stopped, turned around, and for the first time swore at anybody with the whole power of his voice: "Vermin yourself! You ---- ---- cur!" Zimin did not rejoin. His steps were inaudible. Somewhere Yevsey heard the snow crunching under the runners of a cab and the grinding of iron on stone. "He went back there," thought Klimkov, walking slowly along the pavement. "He will tell. Masha will curse me." He spat out, then hummed: "Oh, garden, garden mine!" He stopped at a lamp-post, feeling he had to calm himself. "Here I am, and I can sing if I want to. If a policeman hears it and asks, 'What are you bawling there?' I'll show him my ticket from the Department of Safety. 'Oh, excuse me!' he'll say. But if the joiner should sing, he'll be hustled off to the station-house, and they'll give him a cudgelling. 'Don't disturb the peace!'" Klimkov smiled, and peered into the darkness. "Well, brother, won't you strike up a song?"