"Even so no good will come of it. I know positively that a revolver begs of itself to be used. It sets your hand itching." "Good-by," said Yevsey. "I'm going home." He walked through small by-streets. When he saw people coming his way, he crossed to the other side, and tried to hide in the shade. The premonition rose and stubbornly grew that he would meet Yakov, Olga, or somebody else of that company. "The city is large, there are many people," he comforted himself. Nevertheless each time he heard steps in front, his heart sank painfully, and his legs trembled, losing their strength. "They let them go," he thought in dismal annoyance. "They didn't say anything, and let them go. And how about me? It isn't a matter of indifference to me where they are. Of course not!" It was already dark. A solitary lamp was burning in front of the gates of the police station. Just as Yevsey approached it, he heard someone say in a muffled voice: "Here, this way, then to the back courtyard." Yevsey stopped, and peered in alarm into the darkness. The gates were closed, but a dark man stood at the wicket set in one of the heavy swinging doors, apparently awaiting him. "Hurry!" The man commanded in a dissatisfied tone. Klimkov stopped, crept through the wicket, and went along the dark vaulted corridor under the building to a light feebly flickering, in the depths of the court, where he heard the scraping of feet on the stone, subdued voices, and the familiar repulsive snuffling. Klimkov stopped, listened, turned quietly, and walked back to the gate, raising his shoulders, so as to conceal his face in the collar of his overcoat. He had already reached the wicket, and was about to push it, when it opened of itself, and a man darted through, stumbling and clutching at Yevsey. "The devil! Who's that?" "I." "Who?" "Yevsey Klimkov." "Aha! Well, show me the way. Why are you standing there? Don't you recognize me?" Yevsey looked at the hooked nose, the curls behind the ears, the protruding narrow forehead. "I do. Viakhirev," he said with a sigh. "Yes. Come on." Klimkov returned in silence to the courtyard, where his eyes now distinguished many obscure figures looming in the darkness in uneven hillocks, slowly shifting from place to place, like large black fish in dark, cold water. The satiated voice of Solovyov resounded sweetishly: "That doesn't suit me. But catch a girl for me, a little girl, a dainty little girl. I'll knout her for you." "Always joking, the old devil," mumbled Viakhirev. "A fitting time for it." "I can't give beatings, but I like to give lashings. I remember how I used to flog my nephew, gee!" From a corner flowed the voice of Sasha, falling incessantly like water dripping from roofs on a rainy day, monotonous as the sound of chants recited in church. "Every time you meet those fellows with red flags beat them. First beat the men carrying the flags, the rest will take to flight." "And if they don't?"