"You have been hiding all the same."
A plate fell to the floor in the corridor. Yevsey started. He remembered he had forgotten to remove the revolver from his overcoat pocket. He rose to his feet.
"Sasha is fuming at you."
Before Yevsey's eyes swam the sinister red disk of the moon surrounded by a cloud of ill-smelling lilac-colored mist. He recalled the snuffling, ever-commanding voice, the yellow fingers of the bony hands.
"Won't he come here?"
"I don't know. Why?"
Solovyov's face wore a sleek expression. Apparently he was very well satisfied with something. In his voice sounded the careless affability of an aristocrat. All this was repulsive to Yevsey. Incoherent thoughts tossed about in his mind, one breaking the other off.
"You are all rascals—sorry for Melnikov—so this obese fellow didn't want to recognize Yakov—why?"
"Did you see Zarubin?"
"That's who?" asked Solovyov, raising his brows.