Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him every day.
Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way.
Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild and his long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, but drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.
He had also altered inwardly.
He had developed determination and cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before.
Three episodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculous escape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in the field of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, the earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and harboured a secret loathing for his partner.
Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest suspicions.
He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him and make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate.
He did not dare voice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will.
But each day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jagged razor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered.
Every day he feared that Ostap would not come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die of starvation under some wet Moscow wall.
Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any good news.
His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible.
Hope never deserted him for a moment.
There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page turned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator.
His clothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples.
He was panting.
"Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!"
Vorobyaninov was startled.
Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two names.
Then he cottoned on. . . .
"It's there?" he gasped.
"You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you."
"Don't shout. Everyone will hear."
"That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap.
"It's there, Pussy, and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in the railway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I find it?
Was it child's play?
It was singularly difficult.
A stroke of genius, brilliantly carried through to the end.
An ancient adventure.
In a word, first rate!"
Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap ran to the corridor.
Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing.
Excitedly shooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streets to Kalanchev Square.
They did not even think of taking a tram.
"You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about like that, Pussy?
You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, of course, a top hat.
There's something noble about your face.
Tell me, were you really a marshal of the nobility?"
Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untold wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor.
There was no one about.
Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.
"Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any time of the night.
Remember, Pussy, the third window from the front entrance."
For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by the splendid halls and rooms.
"If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game.
My enthusiasm would have prevented it.
Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles.
We ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation.
The idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal?