But Yevsey pursued his work precisely. He gave Makarov a few heavy bundles of type in three instalments, and cleverly found out from him where the printing-press would be established. This elicited public commendation from Sasha.
"Good boy! Now we have six in our hands—that's not so bad, Klimkov. You will receive a reward."
Yevsey treated his praise indifferently. When Sasha was gone, the sharp face of Maklakov, which had grown thin, leaped into his eyes. The spy, sitting in a dark corner of the room on a sofa, looked into Yevsey's face, twirling his mustache, frowning, and vexed. Something in his look provoked Yevsey, who turned aside.
"Klimkov, come here," the spy called out.
Klimkov turned back, and seated himself next to Maklakov.
"Is it true that you delivered up your brother?" asked Maklakov in a low voice.
"My cousin."
"You're not sorry?"
"No." Yevsey quietly and angrily repeated the phrase that the officials often uttered. "For us, as for soldiers, there is neither mother, nor father, nor brother, only enemies of the Czar and our country."
"Well, of course," said Maklakov, and smiled. After a pause he added, "Really you are a 'good boy.'"