“Good-evening, Barin,” he said, grinning.

“Good-evening,” I said.  “Where are you slipping off to so secretly?”

“Slipping off?” He did not seem to understand my word.  I repeated it.

“Oh, I’m not slipping off,” he said almost indignantly.  “No, indeed.  I’m just out for a walk like your Honour, to see the town.”

“What have they been doing this afternoon?” I asked.  “There’s been a fine fuss on the Nevski.”

“Yes, there has....” he said, chuckling.  “But it’s nothing to the fuss there will be.”

“Nonsense,” I said.  “The police have got it all in control already.  You’ll see to-morrow....”

“And the soldiers, Barin?”

“Oh, the soldiers won’t do anything.  Talk’s one thing—­action’s another.”

He laughed to himself and seemed greatly amused.  This irritated me.

“Well, what do you know?” I asked.

“I know nothing,” he chuckled.  “But remember, Barin, in a week’s time, if you want me I’m your friend.  Who knows?  In a week I may be a rich man.”

“Some one else’s riches,” I answered.

“Certainly,” he said.  “And why not?  Why should he have things?  Is he a better man than I?  Possibly—­but then it is easy for a rich man to keep within the law.  And then Russia’s meant for the poor man.  However,” he continued, with great contempt in his voice, “that’s politics—­dull stuff.  While the others talk I act.”

“And what about the Germans?” I asked him.  “Does it occur to you that when you’ve collected your spoils the Germans will come in and take them?”

“Ah, you don’t understand us, Barin,” he said, laughing.  “You’re a good man and a kind man, but you don’t understand us.  What can the Germans do?  They can’t take the whole of Russia.  Russia’s a big country....  No, if the Germans come there’ll be more for us to take.”

We stood for a moment under a lamp-post.  He put his hand on my arm and looked up at me with his queer ugly face, his sentimental dreary eyes, his red nose, and his hard, cruel little mouth.

“But no one shall touch you—­unless it’s myself if I’m very drunk.  But you, knowing me, will understand afterwards that I was at least not malicious—­”

I laughed.  “And this mysticism that they tell us about in England.  Are you mystical, Rat?  Have you a beautiful soul?”

He sniffed and blew his nose with his hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barin—­I suppose you haven’t a rouble or two on you?”

“No, I haven’t,” I answered.  He looked up and down the bridge as though he were wondering whether an attack on me was worth while.  He saw a policeman and decided that it wasn’t.

“Well, good-night, Barin,” he said cheerfully.  He shuffled off.  I looked at the vast Neva, pale green and dim grey, so silent under the bridges.  The policeman, enormous under his high coat, the sure and confident guardian of that silent world, came slowly towards me, and I turned away home.