“Hullo, Nicolai Leontievitch,” Bohun said, trying to be unconcerned. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see Ivan Andreievitch,” he said. “Wasn’t here; I was going to write to him.”
Bohun then lit a candle and discovered that the place was in a very considerable mess. Some one had been sifting my desk, and papers and letters were lying about the floor. The drawers of my table were open, and one chair was over-turned. Markovitch stood back near the window, looking at Bohun suspiciously. They must have been a curious couple for such a position. There was an awkward pause, and then Bohun, trying to speak easily, said:
“Well, it seems that Durward isn’t coming. He’s out dining somewhere I expect.”
“Probably,” said Markovitch drily.
There was another pause, then Markovitch broke out with: “I suppose you think I’ve been here trying to steal something.”
“Oh no—oh no—no—” stammered Bohun.
“But I have,” said Markovitch. “You can look round and see. There it is on every side of you. I’ve been trying to find a letter.”
“Oh yes,” said Bohun nervously.
“Well, that seems to you terrible,” went on Markovitch, growing ever fiercer. “Of course it seems to you perfect Englishmen a dreadful thing. But why heed it?... You all do things just as bad, only you are hypocrites.”