The thief Potseluytchikov affirmed:
“It’s certainly worth not less than two million.”
“You’re putting it on rather thick,” declared Ostrov incredulously.
“Not at all,” said Poltinin with a knowing look. “Two million is putting it mildly—it’s more likely worth three.”
“And how are you going to dispose of it?” asked Ostrov.
“I know how,” said Poltinin confidently. “Of course you’d get a trifle compared with its real value—still we ought to get a half-million out of it.”
This was followed by blasphemous jests.
Yakov Poltinin had for some time entertained the secret ambition of accomplishing something on a grand scale, something that would cause a lot of talk. It is true the murder of the Chief of Police created a deep impression. Still, it was hardly as important as the affair he had in mind. To steal and destroy the miracle-working ikon—that would be something to crow about! Poltinin said:
“The Socialist Revolutionaries are certain to be blamed for it. Expropriation for party purposes—why not? As for us, no one will even suspect us.”
“The priests will never get over it,” declared Molin, a former instructor, who was a drunkard and a thief—a jail-bird deprived of his legal rights.