“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!”