I can hardly stand on my feet, and I have two files to look through."
"Somehow I feel sorry for that unfortunate man," said Vera hesitantly.
"No reason to feel sorry for him!" Nikolai retorted, turning in the doorway. "If anyone of our own class had played that trick with the bracelet and letter Prince Vasily would have sent him a challenge.
Or if he hadn't, I would.
In the old days I'd simply have had him flogged in the stable.
You'll wait for me in your office tomorrow, Vasily Lvovich. I'll telephone you."
X
The filthy staircase smelled of mice, cats, paraffin-oil, and washing.
Before they had reached the fifth floor Prince Vasily Lvovich halted.
"Wait a bit," he said to his brother-in-law. "Let me catch my breath.
Oh, Kolya, we shouldn't have come here."
They climbed another two flights.
It was so dark on the stairs that Nikolai Nikolayevich had to strike two matches before he made out the number of the flat.
He rang and was answered by a stout, white-haired, grey-eyed woman wearing spectacles, and slightly bent forward, apparently as a result of some disease.
"Is Mr. Zheltkov in?" asked Nikolai Nikolayevich.
The woman's eyes looked in alarm from one to the other and back.
The two men's respectable appearance seemed to reassure her.
"Yes, won't you come in?" she said, stepping back. "First door on your left."
Bulat-Tuganovsky knocked three times, briefly and firmly.
"Come in," a faint voice responded.
The room had a very low ceiling, but it was very wide — almost square in shape.
Its two round windows, which looked very much like port-holes, let in little light.
In fact, it was rather like the mess-room of a cargo ship.
Against one of the walls stood a narrow bedstead, against another was a broad sofa covered with an excellent but worn Tekke rug, and in the middle stood a table spread with a coloured Ukrainian cloth.
At first the visitors could not see the occupant's face, for he stood with his back to the light, rubbing his hands in perplexity.
He was tall and thin, with long, silky hair.
"Mr. Zheltkov, if I'm not mistaken?" Nikolai Nikolayevich asked haughtily.
"Yes, that's my name.
Very glad to meet you."
Holding out his hand, he took two paces towards Tuganovsky.
But Nikolai Nikolayevich turned to Sheyin as if he had not noticed the gesture of welcome.
"I told you we weren't mistaken."
Zheltkov's slim, nervous fingers ran up and down the front of his short brown jacket, buttoning and unbuttoning it.
At last he said with an effort, pointing to the sofa and bowing awkwardly,
"Pray be seated."
He had now come into full view, a man with a very pallid, delicate girl's face, blue eyes and a cleft chin like a wilful child's; he looked somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.
"Thank you," said Prince Sheyin, who had been scanning him with keen interest.
"Merci, " Nikolai Nikolayevich answered briefly.
And both remained standing. "It'll only take us a few minutes.
This is Prince Vasily Lvovich Sheyin, the marshal of nobility in this province.
My name is Mirza Bulat-Tuganovsky.
I'm assistant public prosecutor.
The business which we shall have the honour to discuss with you concerns in equal measure the prince and myself, or, to be exact, concerns the prince's wife, who is my sister."
Completely dazed, Zheltkov sank down on the sofa and stammered through blanched lips,
"Please, sit down, gentlemen."
But, apparently recalling that he had already suggested that, he jumped up, rushed to the window, tousling his hair, and came back again.
And once more his trembling hands ran up and down, tugging at his buttons, plucking his light-coloured, reddish moustache, and touching his face.
"I am at your service, Your Highness," he said in a hollow voice, with an entreating gaze at Vasily Lvovich.
But Sheyin made no reply.
It was Nikolai Nikolayevich who spoke.