Solovyov was thoroughly masticating a piece of ham; which interfered with his articulation. His greasy lips smacked slowly and let out the unconcerned words, "So, it isn't true that you went with Melnikov?"
"Why isn't it true?"
"Why, here you are alive, and he's in bad shape. I saw him yesterday."
"Where?"
The spy named the hospital from which Yevsey had just come.
"Why is he there?" Klimkov inquired apathetically.
"That is it: a Cossack struck him a sabre blow on the head, and the horses trampled him. It's not known how it happened, or why. He's unconscious. The physicians say he won't recover."
Solovyov poured some sort of green whiskey into a glass, held it up to the light, and examined it with screwed-up eyes. After which he drank it, and asked:
"Where are you hiding yourself?"
"I'm not hiding."