"Are you afraid?" asked Maklakov, though he was the first to step from the pavement to cross the frozen dirt of the middle of the street. "No reason to be afraid. These fellows with their songs of war and all such things are peaceful people. The wild beasts are not among _them_, no. It would be good to sit down now in some warm place, in a café, but everything is closed, everything is suspended, brother." "Come home," Klimkov suggested. "Home? No thank you. You can go if you want to." Yevsey remained, submissively yielding to the sad expectation of something inevitable. From the other side of the street came the sound of the people's talk. "Misha, is it possible you don't believe?" one asked in a ringing, joyous voice. A soft bass answered: "I do believe, but I say it won't happen so soon." "Listen! What the devil of a spy are you, eh?" Maklakov suddenly demanded nudging Yevsey with his elbow. "I've been watching you a long time. Your face always looks as if you had just taken an emetic." Yevsey grew glad at the possibility of speaking about himself openly. "I am going away, Timofey Vasilyevich," he quickly mumbled. "Just as soon as everything is arranged, I am going away. I'll gradually settle myself in business, and I'm going to live quietly by myself--" "As soon as what is arranged?" "Why, all this about the new life. When the people start out all for themselves." "Eh, eh," drawled the spy, waving his hand and smiling. His smile robbed Yevsey of the desire to speak about himself. They walked in silence again, and turned again. Both were gloomy. "There, now," Maklakov exclaimed with unexpected roughness and acerbity as they once more approached the author's house. "I'm really going away, forever, entirely from Russia. Do you understand? And I must hand over some papers to this--this author. You see this package?" He waved a white parcel before Yevsey's face, and continued quickly, in a low growl. "I won't go to him myself. This is the second day I've been on the watch for him, waiting for him to come out. But he's sick, and he won't come out. I would have given it to him in the street. I can't send it by mail. His letters are opened and stolen in the Post Office and given over to the Department of Safety. And it's absolutely impossible for me to go to him myself. Do you understand?" The spy pressing the package to his breast bent his head to look into Yevsey's eyes. "My life is in this package. I have written about myself--my story--who I am, and why. I want him to read it--he loves people." Taking Yevsey's shoulder in a vigorous clutch the spy shook him, and commanded: