"It is certainly a relief to contemplate the prospect of such a change to-morrow," said the Count, his expression brightening in the gloom.
For a few moments there was silence between the two men. Dumnoff's small eyes fixed themselves on the shadowy outlines of his companion's face, as though trying to solve a problem far too complicated for his dull intellect.
"I wonder whether you are really mad," he said slowly, after a prolonged mental effort.
The Count started slightly and stared at the ex-coachman with a frightened look.
"Mad?" he repeated, nervously. "Who says I am mad? Why do you ask the question?"
"Most people say so," replied the other, evidently without any intention of giving pain. "Everybody who works with us thinks so."
"Everybody? Everybody? I think you are dreaming, Dumnoff. What do you mean?"
"I mean that they think so because you have those queer fits of believing yourself a rich count every week, from Tuesday night till Thursday morning. Schmidt was saying only yesterday to poor Vjera—"
"Vjera? Does she believe it too?" asked the Count in an unsteady voice, not heeding the rest of the speech.
"Of course," said Dumnoff, carelessly. "Schmidt was saying to me only yesterday that you were going to have a worse attack of it than usual because you were so silent."