"Of course, nobody wants it," remarked Piotr pensively. He laid out the cards again, and stroked his cheeks meditatively. "You are a Russian, and you cannot want that--that--this should happen--therefore you ought to fight the revolutionaries, agents of the foreigners, and defend the liberty of Russia, the power and life of the Czar. That's all. Did you understand?" "I did." "Afterward you will see the way it must be done. The only thing I'll tell you beforehand is, don't dwaddle. Carry out all orders precisely. We fellows ought to have eyes in back as well as in front. If you haven't, you'll get it good and hard on all sides--ace of spades, seven of diamonds, ten of clubs." There was a knock at the door. "Open the door." A red, curly-haired man entered carrying a samovar on a tray. "Ivan, this is my cousin. He will live here with me. Get the next room ready for him." "Yes, sir. Mr. Chizhov was here." "Drunk?" "A little. He wanted to come in." "Make tea, Yevsey," said the spy after the servant had left the room. "Get yourself a glass and drink some tea. What salary did you get in the police department?" "Nine rubles a month." "You have no money now?" "No." "You've got to have some, and you must order a suit for yourself. One suit won't do. You must notice everybody, but nobody must notice you." He again mumbled calculations of the cards. Yevsey, while noiselessly serving the tea, tried to straighten out the strange impressions of the day. But he was not successful. He felt sick. He was chilled through and through, and his hands shook. He wanted to stretch himself out in a corner, close his eyes, and lie motionless for a long time. Words and phrases repeated themselves disconnectedly in his head. "What are you guilty of, then?" Filip Filippovich asked in a thin voice. "They killed Dorimedont Lukin," the spy announced drily; then exclaimed joyfully, "The sixteenth coincidence!" "You will choke yourself," said Rayisa in an even voice. There was a powerful rap on the door. Piotr raised his head. "Is it you, Sasha?" "Well, open the door," an angry voice answered. When Yevsey opened the door, a tall man loomed before him, swaying on long legs. The ends of his black mustache reached to the bottom of his chin. The hairs of it must have been stiff and hard as a horse's, for each one stuck out by itself. When he removed his hat, he displayed a bald skull. He flung the hat on the bed, and rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. "Why are you throwing your wet hat on my bed?" observed Piotr. "The devil take your bed!" said the guest through his nose. "Yevsey, hang up the overcoat." The visitor seated himself, stretching out his long legs and lighting a cigarette. "What's that--Yevsey?" "My cousin. Will you have some tea?" "We're all akin in our natural skin. Have you whiskey?"