Klimkov walked out into the court, thrust a coin into the watchman's hand, and repeated with impotent stubbornness: "It's Zarubin, I tell you." "As you please," said the old man, shrugging his hump. "But if it is so, others would have recognized him. An agent came here yesterday in search of someone who had been killed. He didn't recognize your man either, though why shouldn't he admit it if he did?" "What agent?" "A stout man, bald, with an amiable voice." "Solovyov," guessed Yevsey, observing dully that Zarubin's body was being laid in a white unpainted coffin. "It doesn't go in," mumbled one of the fellows. "Bend his legs, the devil!" "The lid won't close." "Sidewise, lay him in sidewise, eh?" "Don't make such a fuss, boys," said the old man calmly. The fellow who held the head of the body snuffled, and said: "It's a spy, Uncle Fiodor." "A dead man is nobody," observed the humpback didactically, walking up to them. The fellows grew silent, continuing to squeeze the springy tawny body into the narrow short coffin. "You fools, get another coffin," said the humpback, angrily. "It's all the same," said one, and the other added grimly, "He's not a great gentleman." Yevsey left the court carrying in his soul a bitter humiliating feeling of insult in behalf of Zarubin. Behind him he clearly heard the hump-back say to the men as they bore off the body: "Something wrong there, too. He came here, and says 'I know him.' Maybe he knows all about this affair." The two men answered almost simultaneously: "Seems to be a spy, too." "What's the difference to us?" Klimkov quickly jumped into a cab, and shouted to the driver: "Hurry!" "Where to?" Yevsey answered quietly and not at once: "Straight ahead." The insulting thoughts dully knocked in his head. "They bury him like a dog--no one wants him--and me, too--" The streets came to meet him. The houses rocked and swayed, the windows gleamed. People walked noisily, and everything was alien. "To-day I'm going to make an end of Sasha. I'll go there at once and shoot him." In a moment he was already compelled to persuade himself: "It's got to be done. As for me, nothing matters to me any more." Dismissing the cabman he walked into a restaurant, to which Sasha came less frequently than to the others. He stopped in front of the door of the room where the spies gathered. "The instant I see him, I'll shoot him," he said to himself. He knocked at the door tremulously, and felt the revolver in his hand. His soul was congealed in cold expectation. "Who's there?" asked someone on the other side of the door. "I." The door was opened a little. In the chink flashed the eyes and reddish little nose of Solovyov. "Ah-h-h!" he drawled in amazement. "There was a rumor that you had been killed." "No, I have not been killed," Klimkov responded sullenly, removing his coat. "I see. Lock the door. They say you went with Melnikov--"