"Good-by," said Yevsey. "I'm going home."
He walked through small by-streets. When he saw people coming his way, he crossed to the other side, and tried to hide in the shade. The premonition rose and stubbornly grew that he would meet Yakov, Olga, or somebody else of that company.
"The city is large, there are many people," he comforted himself. Nevertheless each time he heard steps in front, his heart sank painfully, and his legs trembled, losing their strength.
"They let them go," he thought in dismal annoyance. "They didn't say anything, and let them go. And how about me? It isn't a matter of indifference to me where they are. Of course not!"
It was already dark. A solitary lamp was burning in front of the gates of the police station. Just as Yevsey approached it, he heard someone say in a muffled voice:
"Here, this way, then to the back courtyard."
Yevsey stopped, and peered in alarm into the darkness. The gates were closed, but a dark man stood at the wicket set in one of the heavy swinging doors, apparently awaiting him.
"Hurry!" The man commanded in a dissatisfied tone.
Klimkov stopped, crept through the wicket, and went along the dark vaulted corridor under the building to a light feebly flickering, in the depths of the court, where he heard the scraping of feet on the stone, subdued voices, and the familiar repulsive snuffling. Klimkov stopped, listened, turned quietly, and walked back to the gate, raising his shoulders, so as to conceal his face in the collar of his overcoat. He had already reached the wicket, and was about to push it, when it opened of itself, and a man darted through, stumbling and clutching at Yevsey.
"The devil! Who's that?"