Maklakov stopped, seized him by the sleeve, and asked in a stern though quiet tone: "Did you give him my papers?" "Search me, Timofey Vasilyevich," Yevsey cried sincerely. "I won't," said Maklakov, after reflecting. "Well, now good-by. I'll disappear this very day. Take my advice. I'm giving it, because I pity you. Get out of this service and be quick about it. It's not for you, you know it yourself. Go away now. Now is the time to leave. You see what days these are. The dead are coming to life, people trust one another, they can forgive much in a period like this; they can forgive everything, I think. And above all, avoid Sasha. He's sick and insane. He's made you deliver up your cousin, he--he ought to be killed, like a mangy dog. Well, good-by, brother." He seized Yevsey's hand in his cold fingers, and pressed it firmly. "So you gave him my papers?" he asked once more. "You're sure of it, are you?" "I did--by God! The moment I caught sight of him I at once remembered him." "All right. I believe you. Don't speak about me there for a few days, I beg you." "I'm not going there. On the twentieth I'll call for my salary." "Tell them then. By that time I'll be far away. Good-by." He turned the corner quickly. Yevsey looked after him, thinking suspiciously: "He's going off. Probably he did something against the authorities, and got frightened. How he looks, just as if he had gotten a beating." He grew sorry for himself at the thought that he would never again see Maklakov. Nevertheless, it was agreeable to recall how weak, chilled through, and troubled the spy had looked, the spy who had always borne himself so calmly and firmly. "He spoke boldly even with the officers of the Department of Safety, spoke to them as if he were their equal. But apparently he was all the time afraid of the author who was under surveillance. And here am I, a little man," thought Yevsey, as he strode down the street, "a little man, afraid of everybody, yet the author didn't frighten me. I was drinking tea at his house, while Maklakov was shivering on the street." Klimkov content with himself smiled. "He couldn't say anything, the author couldn't." Yevsey was suddenly seized with a mingled feeling of sadness and insult. He slackened his pace, and sank into reflections as to why this was. He sought the cause of the grief that unexpectedly rose within him. "Why did I speak to him?" he thought again on the way. "Instead, I should have told it that time to Olga." The city awoke, and Yevsey wanted to sleep. He felt uneasiness, discomfort in his breast again. His heart was like a little room from which all the furniture has been removed, and which is left bare and empty, with green stains of dampness on the torn wall-paper, showing the dumb patterns made by the chinks in the plastering. He wanted to sleep, but it was pleasant to stroll the streets, and he walked homeward with reluctant steps. CHAPTER XXVI