Piotr's face wore a preoccupied expression, his eyes were cheerless, his speech abrupt, his thin lips twitched. He rang, and thrust his head out of the door.
"Ivan, bring in the samovar," he called.
Yevsey standing in a corner of the room looked around dismally, in vague expectation.
"Take off your coat, and sit down. You will have the next room to yourself," said the spy, quickly unfolding a card table. He took from his pocket a note-book and a pack of cards, which he laid out for four hands.
"You understand, of course," he went on without looking at Klimkov, "you understand that ours is a secret business. We must keep under cover, or else they'll kill us as they killed Lukin."
"Was he killed?" asked Yevsey quietly.
"Yes," said Piotr unconcernedly. He wiped his forehead and examined the cards. "Deal one thousand two hundred and fourteen—I have the ace, seven of hearts, queen of clubs." He made a note in his book, and without raising his head continued to speak to himself.
When he calculated the cards, he mumbled indistinctly with a preoccupied air; but when he instructed Yevsey, he spoke drily, clearly, and rapidly. "Revolutionists are enemies of the Czar and God—ten of diamonds—three—Jack of spades—they are bought by the Germans in order to bring ruin upon Russia. We Russians have begun to do everything ourselves, and for the Germans—king, five and nine—the devil! The sixteenth coincidence!"
Piotr Petrovich suddenly grew jolly, his eyes gleamed, and his face assumed a sleek, satisfied expression.
"What was I saying?" he asked Yevsey looking up at him.