"Here's a letter. Go. Give it to him who sent you here." "I can't." "Why not?" The large blue eyes commanded. Yevsey had not the power to disobey the look. Turning his face aside he mumbled: "I--I--I have no permission--to take anything from you--or to converse with you. I am going away." "Yes, go away," the author commanded, and for some reason smiled a morose smile. Klimkov took the grey envelope, and walked away, without asking himself where he was going. He held the envelope in his right hand on a level with his breast, as if it were something murderous, threatening unknown misfortune. His fingers ached as from cold. "What is going to happen to me?" knocked importunately at his brain. Suddenly he noticed the envelope was not sealed. This amazed him. He stopped, looked around, and quickly removed the letter. "Take this dunce away from me. Mironov," he read. He heaved a sigh of relief. "I must give this to Maklakov. He will scold me. Maybe I ought to turn back. But it's not necessary. Somebody else will come soon anyway." Though his fear had disappeared, Yevsey felt sad from the realization of his unfitness for the position, and he felt heavy at the thought that he had again failed to suit the spy, whom he liked so much. He found Maklakov at dinner in the company of a little squint-eyed man dressed in black. "Let me introduce you. Klimkov--Krasavin." Yevsey put his hand in his pocket to get out the letter, and said in an embarrassed tone: "This is the way it happened--" Maklakov held up his hand. "You will tell me later. Sit down, and have your dinner." His face was weary, his eyes dim, his light straight hair dishevelled. "Evidently got drunk yesterday," thought Yevsey. "No, Timofey Vasilyevich," the squint-eyed man said coldly and solemnly. "You are not right. There's something pleasant in every line of work if you love it." Maklakov looked at him, and drank a large glass of whiskey in one gulp. "They are people, we are people, that doesn't signify anything. One says this, another says that, and I do just as I please." The squint-eyed man noticed that Yevsey was looking at his eyeballs as they rolled apart, and put on a pair of glasses with tortoise-shell rims. His movements were soft and alert, like a black cat's. His teeth were small and sharp, his nose straight and thin. When he spoke his rosy ears moved. His crooked fingers kept quickly rolling a crumb of bread into little pellets, which he placed on the edge of his plate. "An assistant?" he asked, nodding his head toward Yevsey. "Yes." "How's business, young man?" "I just began yesterday."