"Yes. Drive on farther," Maklakov ordered quickly noticing that the cab in front had stopped. "Quick!" A minute later he jumped from the cab, and thrust some money into the driver's hand. "Wait," he said to Yevsey, and disappeared in the damp darkness. Yevsey heard his voice. "Excuse me, is this Yakovlev's house?" Someone answered in a hollow voice: "This is Pertzev's." "And which is Yakovlev's?" "I don't know." "Pardon me." Yevsey leaned against the fence, counting Maklakov's tardy steps. "It's a simple thing--just to follow people," he thought. The spy came up to him, and said in a satisfied tone: "We have nothing to do here. To-morrow morning you will put on a different suit, and we'll keep an eye on this house." They walked down the street. The sound of Maklakov's talk kept knocking at Klimkov's ears like the rumble of a drum. "Remember the faces, the dress, and the gait of the people that pass this house. There are no two people alike. Each one has something peculiar to himself. You must learn at once to seize upon this peculiar something in a person--in his eyes, in his voice, in the way in which he holds out his hands when he walks, in the manner in which he lifts his hat in greeting. Our work above all demands a good memory." Yevsey felt that the spy talked with concealed enmity toward him; which aggrieved him. "You have an exceedingly marked face, especially your eyes. That won't do. You mustn't go about without a mask, without the dress peculiar to a certain occupation. Your figure, you in general, resemble a hawker of dry-goods. So you ought to carry about a box of stuffs, pins, needles, tape, ribbon, and all sorts of trifles. I will see that you get such a box. Then you can go into the kitchens and get acquainted with the servants." Maklakov was silent, removed his beard, fixed his hat, and began to walk more slowly. "Servants are always ready to do something unpleasant for the masters. It's easy to get something out of them, especially the women--cooks, nurses, chambermaids. They like to gossip. However, I'm chilled through," he ended in a different voice. "Let's go to a café." "I have no money." "That's all right." In the café he said to the owner in a stern voice: "Give me a glass of cognac, a large one, and two beers. Will you have some cognac?" "No, I don't drink," answered Yevsey, embarrassed. "That's good." The spy looked carefully into Klimkov's face, smoothed his mustache, closed his eyes for a minute, and stretched his whole body, so that his bones cracked. When he had drunk the cognac, he remarked in an undertone: "It's good you are such a taciturn fellow. What do you think about, eh?" Yevsey dropped his head, and did not answer at once. "About everything, about myself." "But what in particular?" Maklakov's eyes gleamed softly. "I think perhaps it would be better for me to enter a monastery," Yevsey answered sincerely. "Why?" "Just so." "Do you believe in God?"