Though I want you to take yourself off."
"One question, but answer it truly: are we the only quintet in the world, or is it true that there are hundreds of others?
It's a question of the utmost importance to me, Pyotr Stepanovitch."
"I see that from the frantic state you are in.
But do you know, Liputin, you are more dangerous than Lyamshin?"
"I know, I know; but the answer, your answer!"
"You are a stupid fellow!
I should have thought it could make no difference to you now whether it's the only quintet or one of a thousand."
"That means it's the only one!
I was sure of it..." cried Liputin.
"I always knew it was the only one, I knew it all along."
And without waiting for any reply he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.
Pyotr Stepanovitch pondered a little.
"No, no one will turn traitor," he concluded with decision, "but the group must remain a group and obey, or I'll... What a wretched set they are though!"
II
He first went home, and carefully, without haste, packed his trunk.
At six o'clock in the morning there was a special train from the town.
This early morning express only ran once a week, and was only a recent experiment.
Though Pyotr Stepanovitch had told the members of the quintet that he was only going to be away for a short time in the neighbourhood, his intentions, as appeared later, were in reality very different.
Having finished packing, he settled accounts with his landlady to whom he had previously given notice of his departure, and drove in a cab to Erkel's lodgings, near the station.
And then just upon one o'clock at night he walked to Kirillov's, approaching as before by Fedka's secret way.
Pyotr Stepanovitch was in a painful state of mind.
Apart from other extremely grave reasons for dissatisfaction (he was still unable to learn anything of Stavrogin), he had, it seems—for I cannot assert it for a fact—received in the course of that day, probably from Petersburg, secret information of a danger awaiting him in the immediate future.
There are, of course, many legends in the town relating to this period; but if any facts were known, it was only to those immediately concerned.
I can only surmise as my own conjecture that Pyotr Stepanovitch may well have had affairs going on in other neighbourhoods as well as in our town, so that he really may have received such a warning.
I am convinced, indeed, in spite of Liputin's cynical and despairing doubts, that he really had two or three other quintets; for instance, in Petersburg and Moscow, and if not quintets at least colleagues and correspondents, and possibly was in very curious relations with them.
Not more than three days after his departure an order for his immediate arrest arrived from Petersburg—whether in connection with what had happened among us, or elsewhere, I don't know.
This order only served to increase the overwhelming, almost panic terror which suddenly came upon our local authorities and the society of the town, till then so persistently frivolous in its attitude, on the discovery of the mysterious and portentous murder of the student Shatov—the climax of the long series of senseless actions in our midst—as well as the extremely mysterious circumstances that accompanied that murder.
But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovitch was already in Petersburg, living under another name, and, learning what was going on, he made haste to make his escape abroad.... But I am anticipating in a shocking way.
He went in to Kirillov, looking ill-humoured and quarrelsome.
Apart from the real task before him, he felt, as it were, tempted to satisfy some personal grudge, to avenge himself on Kirillov for something.
Kirillov seemed pleased to see him; he had evidently been expecting him a long time with painful impatience.
His face was paler than usual; there was a fixed and heavy look in his black eyes.
"I thought you weren't coming," he brought out drearily from his corner of the sofa, from which he had not, however, moved to greet him.
Pyotr Stepanovitch stood before him and, before uttering a word, looked intently at his face.
"Everything is in order, then, and we are not drawing back from our resolution. Bravo!" He smiled an offensively patronising smile.
"But, after all," he added with unpleasant jocosity, "if I am behind my time, it's not for you to complain: I made you a present of three hours."
"I don't want extra hours as a present from you, and you can't make me a present... you fool!"
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovitch was startled, but instantly controlled himself.
"What huffiness! So we are in a savage temper?" he rapped out, still with the same offensive superciliousness.
"At such a moment composure is what you need.
The best thing you can do is to consider yourself a Columbus and me a mouse, and not to take offence at anything I say.
I gave you that advice yesterday."
"I don't want to look upon you as a mouse."
"What's that, a compliment?
But the tea is cold—and that shows that everything is topsy-turvy.
Bah!
But I see something in the window, on a plate." He went to the window.
"Oh oh, boiled chicken and rice!...
But why haven't you begun upon it yet?