“Who is it?” asked Laevsky.

“He asked me not to tell you his name.”

“Tell him I’m busy; to-morrow, if he likes. . . .”

“How can you!” Atchmianov was aghast.  “He wants to tell you something very important for you . . . very important!  If you don’t come, something dreadful will happen.”

“Strange . . .” muttered Laevsky, unable to understand why Atchmianov was so excited and what mysteries there could be in this dull, useless little town.

“Strange,” he repeated in hesitation.  “Come along, though; I don’t care.”

Atchmianov walked rapidly on ahead and Laevsky followed him.  They walked down a street, then turned into an alley.

“What a bore this is!” said Laevsky.

“One minute, one minute . . . it’s near.”

Near the old rampart they went down a narrow alley between two empty enclosures, then they came into a sort of large yard and went towards a small house.

“That’s Muridov’s, isn’t it?” asked Laevsky.

“Yes.”

“But why we’ve come by the back yards I don’t understand.  We might have come by the street; it’s nearer. . . .”

“Never mind, never mind. . . .”

It struck Laevsky as strange, too, that Atchmianov led him to a back entrance, and motioned to him as though bidding him go quietly and hold his tongue.

“This way, this way . . .” said Atchmianov, cautiously opening the door and going into the passage on tiptoe.  “Quietly, quietly, I beg you . . . they may hear.”

He listened, drew a deep breath and said in a whisper: 

“Open that door, and go in . . . don’t be afraid.”

Laevsky, puzzled, opened the door and went into a room with a low ceiling and curtained windows.

There was a candle on the table.

“What do you want?” asked some one in the next room.  “Is it you, Muridov?”

Laevsky turned into that room and saw Kirilin, and beside him
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna.

He didn’t hear what was said to him; he staggered back, and did not know how he found himself in the street.  His hatred for Von Koren and his uneasiness—­all had vanished from his soul.  As he went home he waved his right arm awkwardly and looked carefully at the ground under his feet, trying to step where it was smooth.  At home in his study he walked backwards and forwards, rubbing his hands, and awkwardly shrugging his shoulders and neck, as though his jacket and shirt were too tight; then he lighted a candle and sat down to the table. . . .

XVI