"Maybe it was a revolver," suggested Solovyov stretching his neck.
"A hammer."
"Did you see it?" inquired Sasha sarcastically.
"Ah, don't I know? They agreed to do me up with a hammer, without making any noise. One—"
He adjusted his necktie, buttoned his coat, searched for something in his pockets, and smoothed his curly head, which was covered with sweat. His hands incessantly flashed about his body; they seemed ready to break off any moment. His bony grey face was dank with perspiration, his dark eyes rolled from side to side, now screwed up, now opened wide. Suddenly they became fixed. With unfeigned horror depicted in them they rested upon Yevsey's face, as the man backed to the door.
"Who's that? Who's that?" he demanded hoarsely.
Maklakov went up to him, and took his hand.
"Calm yourself, Yelizar. He's one of our own, a new one."
"Do you know him?"
"Jackass!" came Sasha's exasperated voice. "You ought to see a physician."