"Have you ever been beaten at night by unknown people? Do you understand? Unknown people! There are hundreds of thousands such people unknown to me in the city, hundreds of thousands. They are everywhere, and I am a single one. I am always among them, do you understand?" Now Solovyov began to speak in his soft, reassuring voice, which was drowned, however, by the new burst of words coming from the shattered man, who carried in himself a whirlwind of fear. Klimkov immediately grew dizzy, overwhelmed by the alarming whisper of his talk, blinded by the motion of his broken body, and the darting of his cowardly hands. He expected that now something huge and black would tear its way through the door, would fill the room, and crush everybody. "It's time for us to go," said Maklakov, touching his shoulder. When they were sitting in the cab Yevsey sullenly remarked: "I am not fit for this work." "Why?" asked Maklakov. "I am timid." "That'll pass away." "Nothing will pass away." "Everything," rejoined Maklakov calmly. It was cold and dark, and sleet was falling. The reflections of the lights lay upon the mud in golden patches, which the people and horses tramped upon and extinguished. The two men were silent for a long time. Yevsey, his brain empty, looked into space, and felt that Maklakov was watching his face, in wait for something. "You'll get used to it," Maklakov went on, "but if you have another position, leave it at once. Have you?" "No." "Is it long since you've been in the Department of Safety?" "Yesterday." "That accounts for it." "Now where am I to go?" inquired Yevsey quietly. Maklakov instead of replying to the question asked: "Have you relatives?" "No. I have no one." The spy leaned over, though without saying anything. His eyes were half shut. As he drew his breath through his nose, the thin hair of his mustache quivered. The thick sounds of a bell floated in the air, soft and warm, and the pensive song of copper crept mournfully over the roofs of the houses without rising under the heavy cloud that covered the city with a solid dark canopy. "To-morrow is Sunday," said Maklakov in a low tone. "Do you go to church?" "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. Just so. It's close there." "I do. I love the morning service. The choristers sing, and the sun looks through the windows. That is always good." Maklakov's simple words emboldened Yevsey. He felt a desire to speak of himself. "It is nice to sing," he began. "When I was a little boy I sang in the church in our village. When I sang I didn't know where I was. It was just the same as if I didn't exist." "Here we are," said Maklakov. Yevsey sighed, and looked sadly at the long structure of the railway station, which all of a sudden loomed up before them and barred the way.