The spy came up to him, and said in a satisfied tone:
"We have nothing to do here. To-morrow morning you will put on a different suit, and we'll keep an eye on this house."
They walked down the street. The sound of Maklakov's talk kept knocking at Klimkov's ears like the rumble of a drum.
"Remember the faces, the dress, and the gait of the people that pass this house. There are no two people alike. Each one has something peculiar to himself. You must learn at once to seize upon this peculiar something in a person—in his eyes, in his voice, in the way in which he holds out his hands when he walks, in the manner in which he lifts his hat in greeting. Our work above all demands a good memory."
Yevsey felt that the spy talked with concealed enmity toward him; which aggrieved him.
"You have an exceedingly marked face, especially your eyes. That won't do. You mustn't go about without a mask, without the dress peculiar to a certain occupation. Your figure, you in general, resemble a hawker of dry-goods. So you ought to carry about a box of stuffs, pins, needles, tape, ribbon, and all sorts of trifles. I will see that you get such a box. Then you can go into the kitchens and get acquainted with the servants." Maklakov was silent, removed his beard, fixed his hat, and began to walk more slowly. "Servants are always ready to do something unpleasant for the masters. It's easy to get something out of them, especially the women—cooks, nurses, chambermaids. They like to gossip. However, I'm chilled through," he ended in a different voice. "Let's go to a café."
"I have no money."
"That's all right."
In the café he said to the owner in a stern voice:
"Give me a glass of cognac, a large one, and two beers. Will you have some cognac?"