The writer smiled.
"Aha! Is that all?"
"Why did I tell him?" Klimkov suddenly wondered. Blinking his eyes, he looked fixedly into the author's face.
"Well, good-by," said the host, rubbing his hands. He moved away from his visitor.
Yevsey nodded to him politely.
"Good-by."
When he came out of the house, he looked around, and immediately observed the black figure of a man at the end of the street in the grey twilight of the morning. The man was quietly striding along the pavement holding his head bent.
"He's waiting," Klimkov thought. He shrank back. "He'll scold me. He'll say it was too long."
The spy must have heard the resonant sound of steps on the frozen paving in the stillness of the morning. He raised his head, and fairly ran to meet Yevsey.
"Did you give it to him? Yes?"