At dusk Steinmetz went out.  He had an appointment with the starosta.

Paul was sitting in his own room, making a pretence of work, about five o’clock, when Steinmetz came hurriedly to him.

“A new development,” he said shortly.  “Come to my room.”

Paul rose and followed him through the double doorway built in the thickness of the wall.

Steinmetz’s large room was lighted only by a lamp standing on the table.  All the light was thrown on the desk by a large green shade, leaving the rest of the room in a semi-darkness.

At the far end of the room a man was standing in an expectant attitude.  There was something furtive about this intruder, and at the same time familiar to Paul, who peered at him through the gloom.

Then the man came hurriedly forward.

“Ah, Pavlo, Pavlo!” he said in a deep, hollow voice.  “I could not expect you to know me.”

He threw his arms around him, and embraced him after the simple manner of Russia.  Then he held him at arm’s length.

“Stepan!” said Paul.  “No, I did not know you.”

Stepan Lanovitch was still holding him at arm’s length, examining him with the large faint blue eyes which so often go with an exaggerated philanthropy.

“Old,” he muttered, “old!  Ah, my poor Pavlo!  I heard in Kiew—­you know how we outlaws hear such things—­that you were in trouble, so I came to you.”

Steinmetz in the background raised his patient eyebrows.

“There are two men in the world,” went on the voluble Lanovitch, “who can manage the moujiks of Tver—­you and I; so I came.  I will help you, Pavlo; I will stand by you.  Together we can assuredly quell this revolt.”

Paul nodded, and allowed himself to be embraced a second time.  He had long known Stepan Lanovitch of Thors as one of the many who go about the world doing good with their eyes shut.  For the moment he had absolutely no use for this well-meaning blunderer.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that it has got beyond control.  We cannot stamp it out now except by force, and I would rather not do that.  Our only hope is that it may burn itself out.  The talkers must get hoarse in time.”

Lanovitch shook his head.

“They have been talking since the days of Ananias,” he said, “and they are not hoarse yet.  I fear, Pavlo, there will never be peace in the world until the talkers are hoarse.”

“How did you get here?” asked Paul, who was always businesslike.

“I brought a pack on my back and sold cotton.  I made myself known to the starosta, and he communicated with good Karl here.”

“Did you learn any thing in the village?” asked Paul.

“No; they suspected me.  They would not talk.  But I understand them, Pavlo, these poor simple fools.  A pebble in the stream would turn the current of their convictions.  Tell them who is the Moscow doctor.  It is your only chance.”