“Yes, of course; but that’s a private affair, while the other would be a political treachery. I’ve never been an agent of the Secret Police.”
“And no one here has,” voices cried again. “It’s an unnecessary question. Every one will make the same answer. There are no informers here.”
“What is that gentleman getting up for?” cried the girl-student.
“That’s Shatov. What are you getting up for?” cried the lady of the house.
Shatov did, in fact, stand up. He was holding his cap in his hand and looking at Verhovensky. Apparently he wanted to say something to him, but was hesitating. His face was pale and wrathful, but he controlled himself. He did not say one word, but in silence walked towards the door.
“Shatov, this won’t make things better for you!” Verhovensky called after him enigmatically.
“But it will for you, since you are a spy and a scoundrel!” Shatov shouted to him from the door, and he went out.
Shouts and exclamations again.
“That’s what comes of a test,” cried a voice.
“It’s been of use,” cried another.