“He expects me to say who’s here, the silly fool,” growled Marsh under his breath, adding just loud enough to be heard through the door, “I.”
“Who? ‘I’?” persisted the voice.
“I, Peter Sergeievitch” (aloud), “blithering idiot” (undertone), said Marsh.
There was much undoing of bars and bolts, and finally, the door opening slightly on the chain, a pair of nervous, twinkling eyes peered through the chink.
“Ah!” said the nervous face, breaking into a smile, “Ivan Petrovitch!” The door closed again and the chain was removed. Then it reopened and we passed in.
“Why the devil couldn’t you open at once?” grumbled Marsh. “You knew I was coming. ‘Who’s there?’ indeed! Do you want me to bawl ‘Marsh’ at the top of my voice outside your door?” At this the nervous man looked terrified. “Well, then, why don’t you open? ‘Ivan Petrovitch’ or ‘Peter Sergeievitch’—can’t any one be Ivan Petrovitch? Isn’t that just why I am ‘Ivan Petrovitch’?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the nervous man, “but nowadays one never knows who may be at the door.”
“Well, then, open and look, or next time I will shout ‘Marsh.’” The nervous man looked more terrified than ever. “Well, well,” laughed Marsh, “I am only joking. This is my friend—er——”
“Michael Mihailovitch,” I put in.
“Very glad to see you, Michael Mihailovitch,” said the nervous man, looking anything but glad.