They walked in silence again, and turned again. Both were gloomy.
"There, now," Maklakov exclaimed with unexpected roughness and acerbity as they once more approached the author's house. "I'm really going away, forever, entirely from Russia. Do you understand? And I must hand over some papers to this—this author. You see this package?"
He waved a white parcel before Yevsey's face, and continued quickly, in a low growl. "I won't go to him myself. This is the second day I've been on the watch for him, waiting for him to come out. But he's sick, and he won't come out. I would have given it to him in the street. I can't send it by mail. His letters are opened and stolen in the Post Office and given over to the Department of Safety. And it's absolutely impossible for me to go to him myself. Do you understand?"
The spy pressing the package to his breast bent his head to look into Yevsey's eyes.
"My life is in this package. I have written about myself—my story—who I am, and why. I want him to read it—he loves people."
Taking Yevsey's shoulder in a vigorous clutch the spy shook him, and commanded:
"You go and give it to him, into his own hands—go, tell him that one—" Maklakov broke off, and continued after a pause—"tell him that a certain agent of the Department of Safety sent him these papers, and begs him most humbly—tell him that way, 'begs him most humbly' to read them. I'll wait here for you, on the street. Go. But look out, don't tell him I'm here. If he asks, say I've escaped, went to Argentine. Repeat what I've told you."
"Went to Argentine."
"And don't forget, 'begs most humbly.'"
"No, I won't."