Solovyov was thoroughly masticating a piece of ham; which interfered with his articulation. His greasy lips smacked slowly and let out the unconcerned words, "So, it isn't true that you went with Melnikov?" "Why isn't it true?" "Why, here you are alive, and he's in bad shape. I saw him yesterday." "Where?" The spy named the hospital from which Yevsey had just come. "Why is he there?" Klimkov inquired apathetically. "That is it: a Cossack struck him a sabre blow on the head, and the horses trampled him. It's not known how it happened, or why. He's unconscious. The physicians say he won't recover." Solovyov poured some sort of green whiskey into a glass, held it up to the light, and examined it with screwed-up eyes. After which he drank it, and asked: "Where are you hiding yourself?" "I'm not hiding." "You _have_ been hiding all the same." A plate fell to the floor in the corridor. Yevsey started. He remembered he had forgotten to remove the revolver from his overcoat pocket. He rose to his feet. "Sasha is fuming at you." Before Yevsey's eyes swam the sinister red disk of the moon surrounded by a cloud of ill-smelling lilac-colored mist. He recalled the snuffling, ever-commanding voice, the yellow fingers of the bony hands. "Won't he come here?" "I don't know. Why?" Solovyov's face wore a sleek expression. Apparently he was very well satisfied with something. In his voice sounded the careless affability of an aristocrat. All this was repulsive to Yevsey. Incoherent thoughts tossed about in his mind, one breaking the other off. "You are all rascals--sorry for Melnikov--so this obese fellow didn't want to recognize Yakov--why?" "Did you see Zarubin?" "That's who?" asked Solovyov, raising his brows. "You know. He lay in the hospital there. You saw him." "Yes, yes, yes. Of course I saw him." "Why didn't you say there that you knew him?" Yevsey demanded sternly. The old spy reared his bald head, and exclaimed in astonishment with a sarcastic expression: "W-w-w-hat?" Yevsey repeated the question, but this time in a milder tone. "That's not your business, my dear fellow. I want you to know that. But I'm sorry for your stupidity, so I'll tell you, we have no need for fools, we don't know them, we don't comprehend them, we don't recognize them. You are to understand that, now and forever, for all your life. Remember what I say, and tie your tongue with a string." The little eyes of Solovyov sparkled cold as two silver coins, his voice bespoke evil and cruelty. He shook his short thick fingers at Yevsey. His greedy bluish lips were drawn sullenly. But he was not horrible. "It's all the same," thought Yevsey. "They are all one gang--they all ought to be--" He darted to his overcoat, snatched the revolver from the pocket, aimed at Solovyov, and shouted dully: "Well!"