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Though Pyotr Stepanovitch was perhaps far from being a stupid man, Fedka the convict had said of him truly "that he would make up a man himself and go on living with him too." He came away from Lembke fully persuaded that for the next six days, anyway, he had put his mind at rest, and this interval was absolutely necessary for his own purposes.
"What does he mean by a telegram from the Secret Police and; a pension? It's obviously a hoax." "Yes, yes," Lembke admitted, abashed. "I tell you what: you leave this with me. I can certainly; find out for you before I track out the others." "Take it," Lembke assented, though with some hesitation. "Have you shown it to anyone?" "Is it likely! No." "Not to Yulia Mihailovna?" "Oh, Heaven forbid!
It was only found the day before yesterday, when the floor was scrubbed. You did set me a task, though!" Lembke dropped his eyes sternly. "I haven't slept for the last two nights, thanks to you. It was found the day before yesterday, but I kept it, and have been reading it ever since. I've no time in the day, so I've read it at night. Well, I don't like it; it's not my way of looking at things.
You are losing your chance of distinction by letting slip the real criminal." "Yulia Mihailovna! Get away, Blum," Von Lembke cried suddenly, hearing the voice of his spouse in the next room. Blum started but did not give in. "Allow me, allow me," he persisted, pressing both hands still more tightly on his chest. "Get away!" hissed Andrey Antonovitch. "Do what you like... afterwards. Oh, my God!"
And for God's sake don't you show it her!" Lembke cried in alarm. "She'll be so upset... and will be dreadfully angry with me." "Yes, you'll be the first to catch it; she'd say you brought it on yourself if people write like that to you. I know what women's logic is. Well, good-bye. I dare say I shall bring you the writer in a couple of days or so. Above all, our compact!"
What's so annoying is that perhaps you are only putting it on before me, and most likely you knew all about this poem and everything long ago! How did it come to be on your table? It found its way there somehow! Why are you torturing me, if so?" He feverishly mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "I know something, perhaps." Lembke parried dexterously. "But who is this Kirillov?"
"Well, that's as you please," muttered Pyotr Stepanovitch; "anyway you pave the way for us and prepare for our success." "Now, who are 'we, and what success?" said Von Lembke, staring at him in surprise. But he got no answer. Yulia Mihailovna, receiving a report of the conversation, was greatly displeased.
A bell rang loudly upstairs. But instead of the wealth which the visitor expected, he found Lembke in a very little side-room, which had a dark and dilapidated appearance, partitioned into two by a large dark green curtain, and furnished with very old though comfortable furniture, with dark green blinds on high narrow windows.
Lembke listened with attention but with an expression that seemed to say, "You don't feed nightingales on fairy-tales." "Excuse me, though. You asserted that the letter was sent abroad, but there's no address on it; how do you come to know that it was addressed to Mr. Kirillov and abroad too and... and... that it really was written by Mr. Shatov?"
Of course, it's an idea..." said Von Lembke, vaguely defending himself, "but... but here I've heard that manifestoes of some sort have been found in X district." "But there was a rumour of that in the summer manifestoes, false bank-notes, and all the rest of it, but they haven't found one of them so far. Who told you?" "I heard it from Von Blum." "Ah, don't talk to me of your Blum.
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