"We are not called upon to judge of such matters. Our business is simple. All we have to do is to take note of a certain face pointed out by the officials, or to find it ourselves, gather information, make observations, give a report to the authorities, and let them do as they please. For all we care they may flay people alive. Politics do not concern us. Once there was an agent in our Department, Grisha Sokovnin, who also thought about such things, and ended his life in a prison hospital where he died of consumption."
Oftenest the conversation took some such course as the following:
Viekov, a wig-maker, always gaily and fashionably dressed, a modest, quiet person, announced:
"Three fellows were arrested yesterday."
"Great news!" someone responded indifferently.
But Viekov whether or no would tell his comrades all he knew. A spark of quiet stubbornness flared up in his small eyes as he continued in an inquisitive tone:
"The gentlemen revolutionists, it seems, are again hatching plots on Nikitskaya Street—great goings-on."
"Fools! All the janitors there are old hands in the service."
"Much help they are, the janitors!"
"Hmm, yes, indeed."