"Of course!" burst from Klimkov. But the next instant he compressed his lips tightly, and glanced sidewise at the black-bearded man. He resolved to go away. But just then the car came along, and as the two men prepared to board it, he thought: "I must get on, too, or else they'll guess I'm a spy. What would they think of a man who waited for a car with them, and then didn't take it?" The passengers in the car seemed calmer to Yevsey than the pedestrians on the street. "After all it's some sort of concealment, though only behind glass," was his explanation of the difference, as he listened to the animated conversation in the car. A tall man with a bony face said plaintively, spreading his hands: "I, too, love and respect the Czar; I'm heartily thankful to him for the manifesto. I'm ready to shout 'Hurrah' as much as you please; and offer up prayers of gratitude. But to smash windows from patriotism and break bones--what's that?" "Such barbarism, beastliness in our age!" said a stout lady. "Oh, those people, how horribly cruel they are!" From a corner came a firm assured voice: "All the work of the police, no doubt of it!" "But what for?" All were silent for a minute. "I know," thought Klimkov. From the corner came the same assured voice: "They're preparing a counter-revolution in Russian fashion. You just take a close look at those in command of the patriotic demonstrators--disguised police, agents of the Department of Safety." Yevsey heard these words with joy, and furtively regarded the young face. It was dry and clean, with a cartilaginous nose, a small mustache, and a tuft of light hair on a determined chin. The youth sat leaning against the back of his seat in a corner of the car, one leg crossed over the other. He looked at the passengers in the car with a wise glance from his blue eyes, and spoke like a man who masters his words and thoughts and believes in their effectiveness. Dressed in a short warm jacket and tall boots, he resembled a workingman, but his white hands and the thin horizontal lines on his forehead betrayed him. "Disguised," thought Yevsey. "Well, let him be disguised. What difference does it make to me?" He began to follow the loud firm talk of the fair-haired youth with the greatest attention, looking at his wise, transparent blue eyes and agreeing with him. But suddenly he shuddered, seized with a sharp premonition. On the platform of the car, at the conductor's side, he saw through the window a pair of narrow drooping shoulders, and the back of a black protruding head. The car jolted, and the familiar figure swayed. "Yakov Zarubin!" Klimkov utterly dismayed turned his look again upon the blue-eyed youth. He had removed his hat, and he smoothed his wavy hair as he said: "As long as our administration has the soldiers in its hands, the police, and the spies, it will not yield the people and society their rights without a fight, without bloodshed. We must remember that."