"Well!"
The old man crawled from his chair, and grovelled on the floor, looking like a large heap of dirt. He seized the leg of the table with one hand, and stretched the other toward Yevsey.
"Don't—you mustn't," he muttered in a loud whisper. "My dear sir, don't touch me."
Klimkov pressed the trigger more tightly, more tightly. His head chilled with the effort, his hair shook.
"I will go away—I'm going to get married to-morrow—I'll go away—for always—I'll never—" His heavy cowardly words rustled and crept in the air. Grease glistened on his chin, and the napkin over his bosom quivered.
The revolver did not shoot. Yevsey's finger pained, and horror took powerful possession of him from head to foot, impeding his breath.
"I can give you money," Solovyov whispered more quickly. "I will tell nothing—I will keep quiet—always—I understand—"
Klimkov raised his hand and flung the revolver at the spy. Then he caught up his overcoat, and ran off. Two feeble shouts overtook him:
"Ow, ow!"