"Yes, yes," shot from Krasavin, who greedily rolled his oblique eyes. Once Piotr lost a great deal in cards. He asked in a wearied, exasperated tone: "When will this dog's life of ours end?" Solovyov looked at him, and chewed his thick lips. "We are not called upon to judge of such matters. Our business is simple. All we have to do is to take note of a certain face pointed out by the officials, or to find it ourselves, gather information, make observations, give a report to the authorities, and let them do as they please. For all we care they may flay people alive. Politics do not concern us. Once there was an agent in our Department, Grisha Sokovnin, who also thought about such things, and ended his life in a prison hospital where he died of consumption." Oftenest the conversation took some such course as the following: Viekov, a wig-maker, always gaily and fashionably dressed, a modest, quiet person, announced: "Three fellows were arrested yesterday." "Great news!" someone responded indifferently. But Viekov whether or no would tell his comrades all he knew. A spark of quiet stubbornness flared up in his small eyes as he continued in an inquisitive tone: "The gentlemen revolutionists, it seems, are again hatching plots on Nikitskaya Street--great goings-on." "Fools! All the janitors there are old hands in the service." "Much help they are, the janitors!" "Hmm, yes, indeed." "However," said Viekov cautiously, "a janitor can be bribed." "And you, too. Every man can be bribed--a mere matter of price." "Did you hear, boys, Siekachev won seven hundred rubles in cards yesterday." "How he smuggles the cards!" "Yes, yes. He's no sharper, but a young wizard." Viekov looked around, smiled in embarrassment, then silently and carefully smoothed his clothes. "A new proclamation has appeared," he announced another time. "There are lots of proclamations. The devil knows which of them is new." "There's a great deal of evil in them." "Did you read it?" "No. Filip Filippovich says there's a new one, and he's mad." "The authorities are always mad. Such is the law of nature," remarked Grokhotov with a smile. "Who reads those proclamations?" "They're read all right--very much so." "Well, what of it? I have read them, too, yet I didn't turn black. I remained what I was, a red-haired fellow. It's not a matter of proclamations, it's a matter of bombs." "Of course." "A proclamation doesn't explode." Evidently, however, the spies did not like to speak of bombs, for each time they were mentioned, all made a strenuous effort to change the subject. "Forty thousand dollars' worth of gold articles were stolen in Kazan." "There's something for you!" "Forty thousand! Whew!" "Did they catch the thieves?" someone asked in great excitement. "They'll get caught," prophesied another sorrowfully. "Well, before that happens they'll have a good time."