“Go to the devil, will you—you and your miserable humbug—you miserable humbug yourself,” yelled Velchaninoff, wild with rage and fury, and panting so that he could hardly get his words out. “You think you are going to alarm _me_, do you, you frightener of children—you mean beast—you low scoundrel you?—scoundrel—scoundrel—scoundrel!” He had quite forgotten himself in his rage. Pavel Pavlovitch shuddered all over; his drunkenness seemed to vanish in an instant; his lips trembled and shook. “Are you calling _me_ a scoundrel, Alexey Ivanovitch—_you_—_me_?” But Velchaninoff was himself again now. “I’ll apologise if you like,” he said, and relapsed into gloomy silence. After a moment he added, “But only on condition that you yourself agree to speak out fully, and at once.” “In your place I should apologise unconditionally, Alexey Ivanovitch.” “Very well; so be it then.” Velchaninoff was silent again for a while. “I apologise,” he resumed; “but admit yourself, Pavel Pavlovitch, that I need not feel myself in any way bound to you after this. I mean with regard to _anything_—not only this particular matter.” “All right! Why, what is there to settle between us?” laughed Pavel Pavlovitch, without looking up. “In that case, so much the better—so much the better. Come, drink up your wine and get into bed, for I shall not let you go now, anyhow.” “Oh, my wine—never mind my wine!” muttered Pavel Pavlovitch; but he went to the table all the same, and took up his tumbler of champagne which had long been poured out. Either he had been drinking copiously before, or there was some other unknown cause at work, but his hand shook so as he drank the wine that a quantity of it was spilled over his waistcoat and the floor. However, he drank it all, to the last drop, as though he could not leave the tumbler without emptying it. He then placed the empty glass on the table, approached his bed, sat down on it, and began to undress. “I think perhaps I had better _not_ sleep here,” he said suddenly, with one boot off, and half undressed. “Well, I _don’t_ think so,” said Velchaninoff, who was walking up and down, without looking at him. Pavel Pavlovitch finished undressing and lay down. A quarter of an hour later Velchaninoff also got into bed, and put the candle out. He soon began to doze uncomfortably. Some new trouble seemed to have suddenly come over him and worried him, and at the same time he felt a sensation of shame that he could allow himself to be worried by the new trouble. Velchaninoff was just falling definitely asleep, however, when a rustling sound awoke him. He immediately glanced at Pavel Pavlovitch’s bed. The room was quite dark, the blinds being down and curtains drawn; but it seemed to him that Pavel Pavlovitch was not lying in his bed; he seemed to be sitting on the side of it. “What’s the matter?” cried Velchaninoff. “A ghost, sir,” said Pavel Pavlovitch, in a low tone, after a few moments of silence. “What? What sort of a ghost?”