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Do you know what became of him?" Ivan had bent his head forward on his arms. "Boris" the voice was muffled and unnatural "Boris was shot through the heart, trying to get to the rooms of Sergius Lihnoff, eighteen months ago." "By by whom?" "The police." "A ah! And his brother Féodor?" "In Siberia." There was a moment's pause.
"Father, it is that I want Irina's pardon. Listen! Sergius Lihnoff has been her undoing. Freed from his fanaticism, his fascination, she will be as dangerous as a baby. She always hated the treachery. Before that supper she even begged me to give it up, or to postpone it to Sunday a day when Ternoff wouldn't leave the offices at his hour. I am willing to give myself as guarantee for her.
How did you get into that nest of murderers: the brains and the soul of anarchy in central Russia: especially the creature Petrovitch, or Lihnoff?" Ivan gave a weary sigh. "Because I have been an unspeakable fool: because I was tired; and had been working long, and hard. I chose some new companions; and now I find I entertained assassins unawares."
Very suddenly, however, the clamor ceased, and, out of the silence, rose the tones of a deep, official voice, repeating the formal sentences of accusation and arrest. These were given but three times; and the names were those of Lihnoff, Stassov, and Féodor Lemsky. In his heart Ivan realized at once the reason for this; but the pangs of grief in him came as no surprise.
During that time there occurred two incidents of which he never afterwards was heard to speak, but of which the remembrance never left him; for they eventually proved to be the end of his long and dramatic acquaintance with Irina Petrovna Lihnoff.
Throwing off his hat, then, he filled and lighted a pipe, seated himself at the battered piano sole remaining relic of old Petrov Lihnoff, and now too dilapidated for sale and yielded himself for an hour to that most dangerous luxury of the serious composer: improvisation.
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