“I’ll manage to wriggle out of it somehow, but will see that you get your due,” said Ostrov with a laugh.
“You’re making a sad mistake if you think that I have anything to fear,” observed Trirodov, with a shrug of his shoulders.
Ostrov seemed to grow more insolent every minute. He whistled and said banteringly:
“Tell me now, if you please! Didn’t you kill him?”
“I? No, I didn’t kill him,” answered Trirodov.
“Who then?” asked Ostrov in his derisive voice.
“He’s alive,” said Trirodov.
“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Ostrov.
And he burst out into a loud, insolent, hoarse laugh, though he seemed panic-stricken at the same time. He asked:
“What of those little prisms which you’ve manufactured? I’ve heard that even now they are lying on the table in your study.”