Ostrov caused Trirodov a great deal of annoyance. More than once Trirodov returned to the earlier circumstances of their acquaintance and to their recent meeting at Skorodozh.

The week having elapsed, Ostrov paid Trirodov another visit. That whole week Ostrov could not get rid of his confusion and uneasiness. The details of his meeting with Trirodov became absurdly entangled in his memory. He kept on forgetting the day of the week it was. The week passed rather quickly for him. This was possibly due to his having made several interesting acquaintances. He had become quite a noticeable personage about town.

Ostrov made his visit late on Tuesday evening. He was received at once, and led into a chamber on the ground floor. Trirodov came in almost immediately. Not a little astonished, he asked unwillingly:

“Well, what can I do for you, Denis Alekseyevitch?”

“I’ve come for the money,” said Ostrov gruffly. “To receive the promised relief at your bountiful hands.”

“I did not expect you until Wednesday,” replied Trirodov.

“Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?” said Ostrov with a savage smile. “Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?”

Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked:

“I beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming to-morrow, as was arranged. I haven’t the money ready for you.”

Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger:

“You asked me to come in a week, and I’ve come in a week. You don’t expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. You’ve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.”

He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly:

“It is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.”

“What do you mean it isn’t up?” said Ostrov. “I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French fashion? You won’t come off so easily.”

“You came here on Wednesday,” replied Trirodov. “And this is why I haven’t the money ready for you.”

Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation. He looked at Trirodov with some perplexity, and showed his irritation.

“What do you mean by saying that you haven’t it ready? Why should you get it ready? All you’ve got to do is to take it out of your safe, count it out, and give it to me—that’s the whole method of procedure. It isn’t as if it were a lot of money—it’s a mere trifle.”

“It may be a trifle for some people. It isn’t at all a trifle for me,” said Trirodov.

“Don’t pretend that you’re poor! Some one might think you were a forsaken orphan! What do you expect us to believe?”

Trirodov rose from his seat, looked with stern intentness into Ostrov’s eyes, and said resolutely:

“In a word, I can’t give you the money to-day. Try to come here to-morrow about this time.”

Ostrov rose involuntarily from his chair. He experienced a strange sensation, as if he were being lifted from his seat by his collar and forcibly led to the door. He fired his parting shot:

“Only don’t think that you can pull wool over my eyes to-morrow. I’m not the sort of a chap whom you can feed on promises.”

His small eyes gleamed malignantly. His broad jaws trembled savagely. His feet seemed to carry him to the door of themselves.

“No,” answered Trirodov, “I do not intend to fool you. You will get your money tomorrow.”

Ostrov came at the same hour next evening. This time he was led into Trirodov’s study.

“Well,” asked Ostrov rather impudently, “do you mean to give me the money? Or will you play the same farce once more?”

Trirodov pulled a bundle of bank-notes out of a drawer in his writing-table, and said as he gave them to Ostrov:

“Please count them. There should be two thousand.”

Ostrov whistled and said gruffly:

“That’s too little. I asked for much more.”

“That’s all you’ll get,” said Trirodov resolutely. “It ought to last you quite a while.”

“Perhaps you will add a trifle,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile.

“I can’t,” said Trirodov coldly.

“I can’t leave town on this money,” said Ostrov in a threatening voice.

Trirodov frowned, and looked sternly at Ostrov. New thoughts began to take shape in his mind, and he said:

“You won’t find it to your advantage to remain, and everything you do here will be known to me.”

“Very well, I’ll go away,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile. He took the money, counted it carefully, and put it into his greasy pocket. He was about to take his leave, but Trirodov detained him.

“Don’t go yet. We’ll have a talk.”

At the same instant a quiet boy in his white clothes appeared from some dark corner. He paused behind Trirodov’s chair, and looked at Ostrov. His wide dark eyes, looking out of his pale face, brought Ostrov into a state of painful dread. He lowered himself slowly into the chair near the writing-table. His head felt giddy. Then a strange mood of nonchalance and submission took possession of him. His face bore an expression of apathetic readiness to do everything that he might be commanded to do by some one stronger than himself—whose will had conquered his. Trirodov looked attentively at Ostrov and said:

“Well, tell me what I want to know. I wish to hear from your own lips what you are doing here, and what you are up to. You couldn’t have done much in such a short time, but you surely have found out something. Speak!”

Ostrov sniggered rather stupidly, fidgeted as if he were sitting on springs, and said:

“Very well, I’ll tell you something interesting and won’t charge you a penny for it.”

Trirodov, without taking off his heavy, fixed gaze from Ostrov’s face, repeated:

“Speak!”

The quiet boy looked with his eyes full of intense questioning straight into Ostrov’s eyes.

“Do you know who killed the Chief of Police?” asked Ostrov.

Trirodov was silent. Ostrov’s whole body twitched as he kept up his absurd sniggering.

“He killed him and went away,” went on Ostrov. “He made his escape by taking advantage of the confusion and the darkness, as the newspapers would say. The police have not caught him to this day, and the authorities do not even know who he is.”

“And do you know?” asked Trirodov in a cold, deliberate voice.

“I know, but I won’t tell you,” replied Ostrov rather venomously.

“You shall tell me,” said Trirodov with conviction. Then he added in even a more loud, determined, and commanding voice:

“Tell me, who killed the Chief of Police?”

Ostrov fell back into his chair. His red face became tinged with a sudden grey pallor. His eyes, now bloodshot, half closed like those of a prostrate doll with the eye mechanism in its stomach. There was witheredness, almost lifelessness, in Ostrov’s voice:

“Poltinin.”

“Your friend?” asked Trirodov. “Well, go on.”

“He is now being sought for,” went on Ostrov in the same lifeless way.

“Why did Poltinin kill the Chief of Police?”

Ostrov resumed his stupid snigger, and said:

“It’s a matter of very delicate politics. That means, it simply had to be done. I won’t tell you why. Indeed, I couldn’t tell you if I really wished to. I don’t know myself, I can only venture to guess. But what is a guess worth?”

“Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is quite true that it is impossible for you to know this. Continue your tale.”

“This same affair,” said Ostrov, “is a very profitable article for us just now. Indeed, an article in the budget, as they say.”

“Why?”

Trirodov’s face did not reveal any astonishment, as Ostrov went on:

“We have Potseluytchikov among us, a very lively individual.”

“A thief?” asked Trirodov abruptly.

Ostrov smiled almost consciously, and said:

“Not exactly a thief, still one’s got to be careful with him. An able man in his way.”

Ostrov’s eyes assumed a frankly insolent expression. Trirodov asked:

“What sort of relation has he to this article in your budget?”

“We send him out to the rich men of the place.”

“To blackmail them?” asked Trirodov.

Ostrov replied with complete readiness:

“Precisely. Let us suppose that he comes to Mr. Moneybags. ‘I have,’ he tells him, ‘a thing to tell you in confidence, a thing of great personal interest to you.’ Left alone with Mr. Moneybags he says to him: ‘Five hundred roubles, if you please!’ The other, it goes without saying, is up on his hind legs. ‘What for? What sort of demand is this?’ ‘I mean what I say,’ says the other chap. ‘Otherwise,’ he says, ‘I will put your eldest son in gaol. I can prove that your eldest son has had something to do with the murder of the gallant Chief of Police.’”

“They give?” asked Trirodov.

“Some give, some escort you out of the door,” replied Ostrov.

“A lovely crowd!” observed Trirodov contemptuously. “And what may you be planning now?”

With the same involuntary obedience Ostrov told Trirodov how their company was conspiring to steal a miracle-performing ikon from a neighbouring monastery. The plan was to burn the ikon and to sell the precious stones with which it was covered. It was a difficult affair, as the ikon was under guard. But Ostrov’s friends were counting on taking advantage of one of the summer feasts, when the monks, escorting distinguished pilgrims, would have drunk freely. The thieves had still a month in which to make preparations for the theft; they meant to make use of this time by becoming friendly with the monks, and in this way familiarize themselves with all the conditions.

Trirodov, having listened without interrupting, said to Ostrov:

“Forget that you have told me all this. Goodbye.”

Ostrov gave a start. He appeared as if he had just awakened. Without comprehending the causes of his oppressive confusion he bade his host goodbye and left.

Trirodov decided that the bishop of the local diocese must be warned of the contemplated theft of the miracle-performing ikon.

Bishop Pelagius lived in the monastery in which the ikon of the Mother of God, so revered by the people, was preserved. The relics of an old sainted monk were preserved in the same monastery. Men came from all ends of Russia to worship these holy relics. That was why this monastery was considered wealthy.

Trirodov thought for a long time as to how he might best inform the bishop of the contemplated theft. The thought of writing an anonymous letter was repugnant to him. He decided that it was better to speak to the bishop in person, or to write him a letter with his real name. But then the question remained as to how to explain his own knowledge of the conspiracy. He himself might be suspected as an accomplice of the criminals. As it was, the local townsmen had none too friendly an eye for Trirodov.

He dreaded entangling himself in this dark affair. He already began to feel vexed with himself for his strange curiosity that impelled him to question Ostrov about his affairs. It would have been better perhaps if he were ignorant of the conspiracy. In any case, Trirodov saw clearly that it was impossible for him to maintain silence. He thought that the dark aspects of monastic life did not justify the evil deed planned by Ostrov’s companions. Besides, the consequences of this deed might well prove very dangerous.

Trirodov decided that there was nothing left for him to do but to pay a visit to the monastery. Once on the spot, he thought that some opportunity of informing the bishop would occur to him. But as this visit was very unpleasant to him, he delayed it a very long time.