Though his fear had disappeared, Yevsey felt sad from the realization of his unfitness for the position, and he felt heavy at the thought that he had again failed to suit the spy, whom he liked so much.
He found Maklakov at dinner in the company of a little squint-eyed man dressed in black.
"Let me introduce you. Klimkov—Krasavin."
Yevsey put his hand in his pocket to get out the letter, and said in an embarrassed tone:
"This is the way it happened—"
Maklakov held up his hand.
"You will tell me later. Sit down, and have your dinner."
His face was weary, his eyes dim, his light straight hair dishevelled.
"Evidently got drunk yesterday," thought Yevsey.
"No, Timofey Vasilyevich," the squint-eyed man said coldly and solemnly. "You are not right. There's something pleasant in every line of work if you love it."