"Of course, I don't tie your hands and shouldn't venture to.
You are bound to keep watch, only don't flutter the nest too soon; I rely on your sense and experience for that.
But I should think you've plenty of bloodhounds and trackers of your own in reserve, ha ha!" Pyotr Stepanovitch blurted out with the gaiety and irresponsibility of youth.
"Not quite so." Lembke parried amiably.
"Young people are apt to suppose that there is a great deal in the background.... But, by the way, allow me one little word: if this Kirillov was Stavrogin's second, then Mr. Stavrogin too..."
"What about Stavrogin?"
"I mean, if they are such friends?"
"Oh, no, no, no!
There you are quite out of it, though you are cunning.
You really surprise me.
I thought that you had some information about it.... H'm... Stavrogin—it's quite the opposite, quite.... Avis au lecteur."
"Do you mean it? And can it be so?" Lembke articulated mistrustfully.
"Yulia Mihailovna told me that from what she heard from Petersburg he is a man acting on some sort of instructions, so to speak...."
"I know nothing about it; I know nothing, absolutely nothing.
Adieu.
Avis au lecteur!" Abruptly and obviously Pyotr Stepanovitch declined to discuss it.
He hurried to the door.
"Stay, Pyotr Stepanovitch, stay," cried Lembke. "One other tiny matter and I won't detain you."
He drew an envelope out of a table drawer.
"Here is a little specimen of the same kind of thing, and I let you see it to show how completely I trust you.
Here, and tell me your opinion."
In the envelope was a letter, a strange anonymous letter addressed to Lembke and only received by him the day before.
With intense vexation Pyotr Stepanovitch read as follows:
"Your excellency,—For such you are by rank.
Herewith I make known that there is an attempt to be made on the life of personages of general's rank and on the Fatherland. For it's working up straight for that.
I myself have been disseminating unceasingly for a number of years.
There's infidelity too.
There's a rebellion being got up and there are some thousands of manifestoes, and forevery one of them there will be a hundred running with their tongues out, unless they've been taken away beforehand by the police. For they've been promised a mighty lot of benefits, and the simple people are foolish, and there's vodka too.
The people will attack one after another, taking them to be guilty, and, fearing both sides, I repent of what I had no share in, my circumstances being what they are.
If you want information to save the Fatherland, and also the Church and the ikons, I am the only one that can do it.
But only on condition that I get a pardon from the Secret Police by telegram at once, me alone, but the rest may answer for it.
Put a candle every evening at seven o'clock in the porter's window for a signal.
Seeing it, I shall believe and come to kiss the merciful hand from Petersburg. But on condition there's a pension for me, for else how am I to live?
You won't regret it for it will mean a star for you.
You must go secretly or they'll wring your neck.
Your excellency's desperate servant falls at your feet.
"Repentant free-thinker incognito."
Von Lembke explained that the letter had made its appearance in the porter's room when it was left empty the day before.
"So what do you think?" Pyotr Stepanovitch asked almost rudely.
"I think it's an anonymous skit by way of a hoax."
"Most likely it is.
There's no taking you in."
"What makes me think that is that it's so stupid."
"Have you received such documents here before?"
"Once or twice, anonymous letters."
"Oh, of course they wouldn't be signed.
In a different style?
In different handwritings?"
"Yes."
"And were they buffoonery like this one?"