Weak and uncomprehending Klimkov recovered his senses in a half dark room at a desk covered with green felt. A wave of anguish rose and fell in his breast. The floor heaved and billowed under his feet, and the walls of the room, filled, as it were with green dusk, turned around steadily. Over the table rose a man's white face framed in a thick black beard and spotted by gleaming blue eye-glasses. Yevsey kept his eyes fastened on the glass of the spectacles, on the blue bottomless darkness, which drew him like a magnet and seemed to suck the blood from his veins. Without waiting for a question Klimkov quietly told about the Smokestack and his hunchback friend. He had understood their talks well, and now spoke connectedly in great detail. He seemed to be removing a thin layer of skin from his heart.
A high voice, which cut the ear, interrupted him.
"So? So these jackasses say the emperor the Czar is the fault of everything?"
"Yes."
The man with the blue glasses slowly stretched out his hand, put the telephone receiver to his ear, and asked in a sportive tone:
"Belkin, that you? Yes? See to it, old fellow, that search is made to-night in the rooms of two scoundrels. Arrest them. Eh—eh—a clerk in the chancery department, Kapiton Reüsov. Eh—eh—and a functionary of the court of exchequer—Anton Driagin—what? Well, yes, of course."
Yevsey seized the edge of the table with his hand, feeling a dull pain in his eyes.
"So, my friend," said the man with the black beard, throwing himself back on the armchair. He smoothed his beard with both hands, played with his pencil, flung it on the table, and thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets. He was silent for a painfully long time, then he asked sternly, emphasizing each word:
"What am I to do with you now?"
"Forgive me," came from Yevsey in a whisper.