"Wait a while," Botkin said, "I still would like to know whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?"
"Syvorotka is my name. I'll stay here in the hotel for a while."
He looked at me without any confidence.
"As you please," he said, "I cannot force you to take the mask off.
Good-by."
We shook hands,—and I left the Kornilov's House.
Here I am in the Hotel. Dirty hole—that's it. No linen. A mattress covered with spots. Rotten humor.
Botkin fears that the efforts might compromise those who are around the Mansion. He fears even those who are in exile. He fears everything. But—not for himself. I think he is an honest man.
There is nothing to do here—with these scared people. Suspicious, having lost faith in each other, and jealous! I must try to approach them against their will,—perhaps I can do something better than in Tumen.
It is evident that the tragedy develops here. I would not be surprised to know that Lucie is somewhere around.
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