The stranger smiled pleasantly, as if he had been commended, and continued to speak without showing the slightest embarrassment:
“Well—er—I’ve played in many cities. I’m just passing through here. I’m on my way to attend to some personal business in the Rouban Government. And you just happened to mention a name very familiar to me.”
Kerbakh and Zherbenev exchanged glances. Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued:
“I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends.”
“So-o,” said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval.
Something in Ostrov’s voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent. Indeed his words and his whole demeanour were provokingly arrogant. But it was impossible to be rude with him. His words were proper enough in themselves.
“We haven’t met for some years,” Ostrov went on. “How does he manage to get on?”
“Mr. Trirodov is to all appearances a rich man,” said Kerbakh unwillingly.
“A rich man? That’s agreeable news. In fact, this wealth of Mr. Trirodov’s is of comparatively recent origin. I’m quite sure of that. Of recent origin, I assure you,” repeated Ostrov, giving a sly wink.
“And not of the cleanest?” asked Kerbakh.