The man without a word turned his back on me, exhibiting as he did so the extremely threadbare hindpart of his livery with a solitary reddish heraldic button on it; he put the plate down on the floor, and went away. “Did you go to the police station?” the same female voice called again. The man muttered something in reply. “Eh…. Has some one come?” I heard again…. “The young gentleman from next door. Ask him in, then.” “Will you step into the drawing-room?” said the servant, making his appearance once more, and picking up the plate from the floor. I mastered my emotions, and went into the drawing-room. I found myself in a small and not over clean apartment, containing some poor furniture that looked as if it had been hurriedly set down where it stood. At the window in an easy-chair with a broken arm was sitting a woman of fifty, bareheaded and ugly, in an old green dress, and a striped worsted wrap about her neck. Her small black eyes fixed me like pins. I went up to her and bowed. “I have the honour of addressing the Princess Zasyekin?” “I am the Princess Zasyekin; and you are the son of Mr. V.?” “Yes. I have come to you with a message from my mother.” “Sit down, please. Vonifaty, where are my keys, have you seen them?” I communicated to Madame Zasyekin my mother’s reply to her note. She heard me out, drumming with her fat red fingers on the window-pane, and when I had finished, she stared at me once more. “Very good; I’ll be sure to come,” she observed at last. “But how young you are! How old are you, may I ask?” “Sixteen,” I replied, with an involuntary stammer. The princess drew out of her pocket some greasy papers covered with writing, raised them right up to her nose, and began looking through them. “A good age,” she ejaculated suddenly, turning round restlessly on her chair. “And do you, pray, make yourself at home. I don’t stand on ceremony.” “No, indeed,” I thought, scanning her unprepossessing person with a disgust I could not restrain. At that instant another door flew open quickly, and in the doorway stood the girl I had seen the previous evening in the garden. She lifted her hand, and a mocking smile gleamed in her face. “Here is my daughter,” observed the princess, indicating her with her elbow. “Zinotchka, the son of our neighbour, Mr. V. What is your name, allow me to ask?” “Vladimir,” I answered, getting up, and stuttering in my excitement. “And your father’s name?” “Petrovitch.” “Ah! I used to know a commissioner of police whose name was Vladimir Petrovitch too. Vonifaty! don’t look for my keys; the keys are in my pocket.” The young girl was still looking at me with the same smile, faintly fluttering her eyelids, and putting her head a little on one side. “I have seen Monsieur Voldemar before,” she began. (The silvery note of her voice ran through me with a sort of sweet shiver.) “You will let me call you so?” “Oh, please,” I faltered. “Where was that?” asked the princess.