“It seemed a poor excuse for a murder; he is still, I have no doubt, in Siberia.
“But I envy my friend. That was a delightful death to die.... Good-night, Ivan Andreievitch.”
He waved his hand at me and was gone. I was quite alone in the long black street, engulfed by the high, overhanging flats.
XXI
Late on the afternoon of Nina’s birthday, when I was on the point of setting out for the English Prospect, the Rat appeared. I had not seen him for several weeks; but there he was, stepping suddenly out of the shadows of my room, dirty and disreputable and cheerful. He had been, I perceived, drinking furniture polish.
“Good-evening, Barin.”
“Good-evening,” I said sternly. “I told you not to come here when you were drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said, offended, “only a little. It’s not much that you can get these days. I want some money, Barin.”
“I’ve none for you,” I answered.
“It’s only a little—God knows that I wouldn’t ask you for much, but I’m going to be very busy these next days, and it’s work that won’t bring pay quickly. There’ll be pay later, and then I will return it to you.”