Trirodov’s eyes had a tranquil look. He seemed remote. His voice had a calm, hollow sound. Ostrov exclaimed vehemently:
“Don’t imagine for a moment that I have fallen into a trap. If I don’t leave this place, I have prepared something that will send you to gaol.”
“Nonsense,” said Trirodov as quietly as before. “I’m not afraid. In the last resort I can emigrate.”
“I suppose you’ll put on the mantle of a political exile,” laughed Ostrov. “It’s useless! Our police, they’ll keep a sharp look-out for you, clever fellows that they are. Never fear, they’ll get you. They’ll get you anywhere. You may be sure of that.”
“They’ll not give me up where I’m going,” said Trirodov. “It’s a safe place, and you’ll not be able to reach me there.”
“What sort of place have you prepared for yourself?” asked Ostrov, smiling malignantly. “Or is it a secret?”
“It is the moon,” was Trirodov’s simple and tranquil answer.
Ostrov laughed boisterously. Trirodov added:
“Moreover, the moon has been created by me. She is before my window, ready to take me.”
Ostrov jumped up in great rage from his place, stamped violently with his feet, and shouted: