"For such talk people used to be put in prison. What numbers have been put in prison! And now they speak that way themselves." He wandered about in the crowd alone from morning until late at night. Sometimes he had an irresistible yearning to speak; but as soon as he felt the desire coming upon him, he immediately walked off into empty by-streets and dark corners. "If I speak, they'll recognize me," he thought with importunate dread. And he comforted himself by reflecting, "No hurry. I'll have time enough yet to speak." One night while walking along the street, he saw Maklakov hidden in a gateway, looking up to a lighted window on the opposite side of the street like a hungry dog waiting for a sop. "Keeps at his work," thought Yevsey, then said to Maklakov: "Do you want me to take your place, Timofey Vasilyevich?" "You, me, Yevsey?" exclaimed the spy in a subdued voice, and Klimkov felt that something was wrong, for it was the first time that the spy had ever addressed him by the first name. Moreover Maklakov's voice was not his own. "No, go," he said. The spy always so smooth and decorous now had a shabby appearance. His hair, as a rule carefully and prettily combed behind his ears, lay in disorder over his forehead and temples. He smelt of whiskey. "Good-by," said Yevsey raising his hat and walking off slowly. He had taken only a few steps, however, when he heard a call behind him. "Listen!" Yevsey turned back noiselessly, and stood beside Maklakov. "Let's walk together." "He must be very drunk," thought Yevsey. "Do you know who lives in that house?" asked Maklakov, looking back. "No." "Mironov, the writer. Do you remember him?" "I do." "Well, I should think you would. He made you out a fool so simply." "Yes," agreed Yevsey. They walked slowly with noiseless tread. The narrow street was quiet, deserted, and cold. "Let's go back," continued Maklakov. Then he adjusted his hat on his head, buttoned his overcoat, and declared thoughtfully, "Brother, I am going away--to Argentine. That's in America." Klimkov heard something hopeless, dismal in his words, and he, too, began to feel gloomy and awkward. "Why--so far?" "I must." Maklakov again stopped opposite the illuminated window, and looked up to it silently. Like a huge, solitary eye on the black face of the house, it cast a peaceful beam of light into the darkness--a small island amid black and heavy waters. "That's his window, Mironov's," said Maklakov quietly. "That's the way he sits at night all by himself and writes. Come." Some people advanced toward them singing softly: "It comes, it comes, the last decisive fight!" "We ought to cross to the other side," Yevsey proposed in a whisper.