It was growing dark. Ostrov was approaching Trirodov’s gates. His face betrayed agitation. It was even more clear now than by daylight that life had used him hardly. He felt painfully timid in going to Trirodov, in whom he evidently had certain hopes. Before Ostrov could make up his mind to ring the bell at the gates he walked the entire length of the stone wall that surrounded Trirodov’s house and garden and examined it attentively, without learning anything. Only the entire length of the tall wall was before his eyes.

It was already quite dark when Ostrov stopped at last at the main gate. The half-effaced figures and old heraldic emblems held his attention for a moment only. He had already taken hold of the brass bell-handle and paused cautiously, as if it were his habit to reconsider at the last moment; he gave a sudden shiver. A clear, childish voice behind his back uttered quietly:

“Not here.”

Ostrov looked on both sides timidly, half stealthily, bending his head low and letting it sink between his shoulders. Quite close by a pale, blue-eyed boy dressed in white was standing and eyeing him with intent scrutiny.

“They won’t hear you here. Every one has left,” he said.

“Where is one to ring?” Ostrov asked harshly.

The boy pointed his finger to the left; it was a slow, graceful gesture.

“Ring at the small gate there.”

He ran off so quickly and quietly it seemed as if he had not been there. Ostrov went in the direction indicated. He came to a high, narrow gate. A white electric bell-button shone in a round wooden recess. Ostrov rang and listened. He could hear somewhere the rapid shivering tones of a tiny bell. Ostrov waited. The door did not open. Ostrov rang once more. It was quiet behind the door.

“I wonder how long there’s to wait?” he grumbled, then gave a shout: “Hey, you in there!”

A faint, muffled sound vibrated in the damp air, as if some one had tittered lightly. Ostrov caught hold of the brass handle of the gate. The gate opened towards him easily and without a sound. Ostrov looked round cautiously as he entered, and purposely left the gate open.

He found himself in a small court on either side of which was a low wall. The gate swung to behind him with a metallic click. Had he himself pulled it to rather quickly? He could not recall now. He walked forward about ten paces, when he came upon a wall twice as high as the side walls. It had a massive oak door; an electric bell-button shone very white on one side. Ostrov rang once more. The bell-button was very cold, almost icy, to the touch. A sensation of chill passed down his whole body.

A round window, like a dim, motionless, observing eye, was visible high above the door.

Ostrov could not say whether he waited there a long or a short time. He experienced a strange feeling of having become congealed and of having lost all sense of time. Whole days seemed to pass before him like a single minute. Rays of bright light fell on his face and disappeared. Ostrov thought that some one flashed this light on his face by means of a lantern from the window over the door—a light so intense that his eyes felt uncomfortable. He turned his face aside in vexation. He did not wish to be recognized before he entered. That was why he came in the dark of the evening.

But evidently he had been recognized. This door swung open as soundlessly as the first. He entered a short, dark corridor in the thick wall; then another court. No one was there. The door closed noiselessly behind him.

“How many courts are there in this devilish hole?” growled Ostrov.

A narrow path paved with stone stretched before him. It was lit up by a lamp from a distance, the reflection of which was directed straight towards Ostrov, so that he could see only the smooth grey slabs of stone under his feet. It was altogether dark on either side of the path, and it was impossible to know whether a wall was there or trees. There was nothing for him to do but to walk straight on. Nevertheless he occasionally thrust his foot out to either side of him and felt there; he was convinced that thickly planted, prickly bushes grew there. He thought there was another hedge beyond that.

“Tricks!” he grumbled.

As he slowly moved forward he experienced a vague and growing fear. So as not to be caught off his guard, he put his left hand into the pocket of his dusty and greasy trousers and felt there the hard body of a revolver, which he then transferred to his right-hand pocket.

On the threshold of the house he was met by Trirodov. Trirodov’s face expressed nothing except an apparent effort to suppress his feelings. There was no warmth or welcome in his voice:

“I did not expect to see you.”

“I’ve come, all the same,” said Ostrov. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to receive your dear guest.”

There was contemptuous defiance in his voice. His eyes looked more insolent than ever. Trirodov frowned lightly and looked straight into Ostrov’s eyes, which were compelled to turn aside.

“Come in,” said Trirodov. “Why didn’t you write and tell me that you wished to see me?”

“How should I know that you were here?” growled Ostrov surlily.

“Nevertheless, you found out,” said Trirodov, with a vexed smile.

“Found out quite by accident on the float,” replied Ostrov. “Heard you mentioned in conversation. I don’t think you’ll care to know what they said.”

He gave an insinuating smile. Trirodov merely said: “Come in. Follow me.”

They ascended a narrow, very steep staircase with low, wide stairs; there were frequent turnings in various directions round all sorts of odd corners, interrupted by long landings between the climbs; each landing revealed a tightly shut door. The light was clear and unwavering. A cold gaiety and malice, a half-hidden, motionless irony, were in the gleam of the incandescent wires bent inside the glass pears.

Some one walked behind with a light, cautious step. There were the clicking sounds of lights being extinguished; the passages they had just passed through were plunged in darkness.

At last they reached the top of the stairway. They walked through a long corridor and found themselves in a large gloomy room. There was a sideboard against one of the walls and a table in the middle; cut-glass dishes rested along shelves around the room. It was to all appearances a dining-room.

“It’s quite the proper thing to do,” grumbled Ostrov. “A meal would do me no harm.”

The light was strangely distributed. Half of the room and half of the table were in the shadow. Two boys dressed in white waited at the table. Ostrov winked at them insolently.

But they looked on calmly and departed quite simply. Trirodov settled himself in the dark part of the room. Ostrov sat down at the table. Trirodov began:

“Well, what do you want of me?”

“Now that’s a businesslike question,” answered Ostrov, with a hoarse laugh, “very much a business question, not so much a gracious as a businesslike question. What do I want? In the first place, I am delighted to see you. There is a certain bond between us—our childhood and all the rest of it.”

“I’m very glad,” said Trirodov dryly.

“I doubt it,” responded Ostrov impudently. “Then again, my dear chap, I’ve come for something else. In fact, you’ve guessed what I’ve come for. You’ve been a psychologist ever since I can remember.”

“What is it you want?” asked Trirodov.

“Can’t you guess?” said Ostrov, winking his eye.

“No,” replied Trirodov dryly.

“In that case there’s nothing left for me to do but to tell you straight: I need money.”

He laughed hoarsely, unnaturally; then, pouring out a glass of wine, mumbled as he gulped it down:

“Good wine.”

“Every one needs money,” answered Trirodov coldly. “Where do you intend to get it?”

Ostrov turned in his chair. He chuckled nervously and said:

“I’ve come to you, as you see. You evidently have lots of money, and I have little. Comment is needless, as the newspapers would say.”

“So that’s it! And suppose I refuse?” asked Trirodov.

Ostrov whistled sharply and looked insolently at Trirodov.

“Well, old chap,” he said rudely, “I don’t count on your permitting yourself such a stupid mistake.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” repeated Ostrov after him. “I think the facts must be as clear to you as to me, if not more so—and there’s nothing to be gained by the world getting wind of them.”

“I owe you nothing,” said Trirodov quietly. “I don’t understand why I should give you money. You’d only spend it recklessly—squander it most likely.”

“And do you spend it any more sensibly?” asked Ostrov with a malicious smile.

“If not more sensibly, at least with more reckoning,” retorted Trirodov. “In any case, I’m prepared to help you. Only I may as well tell you that I have little spare cash and that even if I had it I’d not give you much.”

Ostrov gave a short, abrupt laugh and said with decision:

“A little is of no use to me. I need a lot of money. But perhaps you’ll not think it much.”

“How much do you want?” asked Trirodov abruptly.

“Twenty thousand roubles,” replied Ostrov, making a determined effort to brazen it out.

“I’ll not give you so much,” said Trirodov, “and I couldn’t even if I wished to.”

Ostrov drew nearer to Trirodov and whispered:

“I’ll inform against you.”

“What then?” asked Trirodov, untouched by the threat.

“It will be bad for you. It’s a capital crime, as you know, my dear chap, and of a no mean order,” said Ostrov in a menacing tone.

“Yours, my good fellow,” said Trirodov in his usual calm voice.

“I’ll manage to wriggle out of it somehow, but will see that you get your due,” said Ostrov with a laugh.

“You’re making a sad mistake if you think that I have anything to fear,” observed Trirodov, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ostrov seemed to grow more insolent every minute. He whistled and said banteringly:

“Tell me now, if you please! Didn’t you kill him?”

“I? No, I didn’t kill him,” answered Trirodov.

“Who then?” asked Ostrov in his derisive voice.

“He’s alive,” said Trirodov.

“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Ostrov.

And he burst out into a loud, insolent, hoarse laugh, though he seemed panic-stricken at the same time. He asked:

“What of those little prisms which you’ve manufactured? I’ve heard that even now they are lying on the table in your study.”

“That’s true,” said Trirodov dryly.

“And I’m told that your present is not absolutely clean either,” observed Ostrov.

“Yes?” asked Trirodov derisively.

“Yes-s,” continued Ostrov jeeringly. “The first business in your colony is conspiracy, the second corruption, the third cruelty.”

Trirodov gave a stern frown and asked scornfully:

“You’ve had enough time to gather a bouquet of slanders.”

“Yes-s, I’ve managed, as you see. Whether they are slanders is quite another matter. I can only say that they fit you somehow. Take, for instance, those perverse habits of yours; need I recall them to you? I could remind you, if I wished, of certain facts from your early life.”

“You know you are talking nonsense,” said Trirodov.

“It is reported,” went on Ostrov, “that all this is being repeated in the quiet of your asylum.”

“Even if it were all true,” said Trirodov, “I do not see that you have anything to gain by it.”

Trirodov’s eyes had a tranquil look. He seemed remote. His voice had a calm, hollow sound. Ostrov exclaimed vehemently:

“Don’t imagine for a moment that I have fallen into a trap. If I don’t leave this place, I have prepared something that will send you to gaol.”

“Nonsense,” said Trirodov as quietly as before. “I’m not afraid. In the last resort I can emigrate.”

“I suppose you’ll put on the mantle of a political exile,” laughed Ostrov. “It’s useless! Our police, they’ll keep a sharp look-out for you, clever fellows that they are. Never fear, they’ll get you. They’ll get you anywhere. You may be sure of that.”

“They’ll not give me up where I’m going,” said Trirodov. “It’s a safe place, and you’ll not be able to reach me there.”

“What sort of place have you prepared for yourself?” asked Ostrov, smiling malignantly. “Or is it a secret?”

“It is the moon,” was Trirodov’s simple and tranquil answer.

Ostrov laughed boisterously. Trirodov added:

“Moreover, the moon has been created by me. She is before my window, ready to take me.”

Ostrov jumped up in great rage from his place, stamped violently with his feet, and shouted:

“You are laughing at me! It is useless. You can’t fool me with those stupid fairy-tales of yours. Tell those sweet little stories to the silly little girls of the provinces. I’m an old sparrow. You can’t feed me on chaff.”

Trirodov remained unruffled.

“You’re fuming all for nothing. I’ll help you with money on a condition.”

“What sort of condition?” asked Ostrov with restrained anger.

“You’ll have to go from here—very far—for always,” answered Trirodov.

“I’ll have to think that over,” said Ostrov.

“I give you a week. Come to me exactly within a week, and you’ll receive the money.”

Ostrov suddenly felt an incomprehensible fear. He experienced the feeling of having passed into another’s power. He felt oppressed. A stern smile marked Trirodov’s face. He said quietly:

“You are of such little value that I could kill you without scruple—like a snake. But I am tired even of other people’s murders.”

“My value?” Ostrov muttered hoarsely and absurdly.

“What is your value?” went on Trirodov. “You are a hired murderer, a spy, a traitor.”

Ostrov said in a meek voice:

“Nevertheless, I’ve not betrayed you so far.”

“Because it wouldn’t pay, that’s why you’ve not betrayed me. Again, you dare not.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Ostrov humbly. “What is your condition? Where do you want me to go?”