Klimkov turned back, and seated himself next to Maklakov. "Is it true that you delivered up your brother?" asked Maklakov in a low voice. "My cousin." "You're not sorry?" "No." Yevsey quietly and angrily repeated the phrase that the officials often uttered. "For us, as for soldiers, there is neither mother, nor father, nor brother, only enemies of the Czar and our country." "Well, of course," said Maklakov, and smiled. After a pause he added, "Really you are a 'good boy.'" By his voice and smile Klimkov understood that the spy was making sport of him. He felt offended. "Maybe I am sorry." "Yes?" "But if I have to serve honestly and faithfully--" "Of course. I'm not disputing with you, you queer fellow." Then Maklakov lighted a cigarette, and asked Yevsey: "Why are you sitting here?" "Oh, for no reason. I have nothing to do." Maklakov slapped him on his knee, and suddenly said: "You're a poor unfortunate, brother, little man." Yevsey rose. "Timofey Vasilyevich," he began in a trembling voice. "Well, what is it?" "Tell me--" "Tell you what?" "I don't know." "Well, I don't either." Klimkov mumbled: "I am sorry for my cousin--and there's a girl there, too. They are all better than we, by God they are! Really and truly they're better." Maklakov also rose to his feet, stretched himself, and stepping to the door remarked coldly: "Go to the devil!" Yevsey remained alone. "Well, there," thought he, "there's another fellow--all alike. First they draw me on, then they push me away." The vengeful feeling toward Olga awoke in him, and blended with his sense of ill-will toward all people, which found ample nourishment in his soul powerless to resist because of the poison of many insults. Yevsey vigorously set to work to enmeshing himself in a net of new moods, and he served now with a dull zeal hitherto unknown to him. Gradually the night came upon which it had been decided to arrest Olga, Yakov, and all implicated in the affair of the printing-press whom Yevsey had succeeded in tracking. He knew that the printing-office was located in the wing of a house set in a garden and occupied by a large red-bearded man named Kostya and his wife, a stout, pock-marked woman. He also knew that Olga was the servant of these two people. Kostya's head was close cropped, and his wife had a grey face and roaming eyes. Upon Yevsey both produced the impression of witless persons, or persons who have lain in a hospital a long time. "What fearful people they are!" he remarked to Yakov when he pointed them out one evening during a party at Makarov's lodging. Yakov loved to boast of his acquaintances. He proudly shook his curly head, and explained with an air of importance: