Dmitri Stepanovich preceded his visitor from the hall to his study, instantly locking the door leading to the rest of the house.
There was a light somewhere—somebody must be still awake.
The doctor sat down at his desk, waved his visitor to a chair opposite, glanced moodily at the pile of papers for his signature, and threaded the fingers of both hands.
"Well—what can I do for you?"
The officer pressed his cap against his chest and said softly, with heart-rending tenderness:
"Where's Dasha?"
The doctor banged the back of his head against the carving on the chair.
For the first time he looked into the face of his visitor.
Two years ago, Dasha had sent him a snapshot of herself and her husband.
This was he.
The doctor turned pale, the bags beneath his eyes shook, as he echoed hoarsely:
"Dasha?"
"Yes, I'm Telegin."
And he, too, turned pale, looking into the doctor's eyes.
Recovering himself, Dmitri Stepanovich, instead of making the natural gesture of welcome towards his son-in-law, whom he was meeting for the first time in his life, threw out his hands dramatically, emitting a vague sound, as if repressing a laugh.
"So you're.... Telegin! Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"
He was apparently too much astonished even to shake hands with Ivan Ilyich.
He fixed his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose (not the old cracked ones with nickel frames, but imposing gold-rimmed ones) and for some reason began hastily pulling out the drawers of his desk, which were crammed with papers.
Telegin, somewhat taken aback, followed his movements with astonishment.
Only a minute before he had been ready to tell Dr. Bulavin all about himself, as to his own father.... But now he thought:
"The devil knows— perhaps he guesses.... I should probably be putting him in an awkward position: after all, he is a minister...." Letting his head droop, he said very softly:
"Dmitri Stepanovich, I haven't seen Dasha for over six months, letters never arrive.... I haven't the slightest idea where she is."
"She's alive, she's alive, she's well."
The doctor was bending almost under the desk, to the very lowest drawer.
"I'm in the Volunteer Army.... I've been fighting the Bolsheviks since March.... I've just been sent by headquarters to the north on a secret mission."
Dmitri Stepanovich listened to him with a bewildered expression on his face; at the words "secret mission" a smile came and went beneath his moustache.
"Aha—and what regiment may you be in?"
"The Privates'."
Telegin felt the blood rush into his cheeks.
"Aha! So there is such a thing in the Volunteer Army! Will you be staying with us long?"
"I'm leaving tonight."
"Very good!
Where for, if I may ask?
Excuse me—it's a military secret of course, I don't insist.... In other words—on counterintelligence?"
There was something so strange in Dmitri Stepanovich's voice that Telegin, despite his intense agitation, noticed it and was on his guard at once.
But now the doctor had found what he was looking for.
"Your wife is in good health.... I got this from her last week—read it. There's something about you in it." (The doctor flung several sheets of paper covered with Dasha's bold handwriting, in front of Telegin.
The irregular, precious letters swam before the eyes of Ivan Ilyich.) "Excuse me, I must leave you for a moment.
Make yourself at home."
The doctor hurried out, locking the door behind him.
The last Ivan Ilyich heard of him was his reply to somebody in the house: "... only a petitioner."
The doctor went out of the dining room into a dark passage where there was an old-fashioned telephone.
Standing with his face against the wall as he wound up the crank at the side of the telephone, he demanded under his breath the number of counterintelligence, and called for Semyon Semyonovich Govyadin to come to the telephone himself.
Dasha's letter was written in copying-ink pencil, and the writing got bigger and bigger as it went on, the lines running more and more steeply downwards.
"Papa, I don't know what's going to become of me.... Everything's as vague as ever.... You're the only person I can write to. I'm in Kazan. I may be leaving tomorrow, but I don't know if I'll get to you.
I want to see you.
You'll understand everything.
I'll do whatever you advise me to.... It's simply a miracle that I'm still alive.... Perhaps it would be better if I weren't, after all I've been through.... Everything I was told is a pack of lies, all a disgusting fraud.... Even Nikanor Yurevich Kulichok.... I trusted him, and allowed him to persuade me to go to Moscow. (I'll tell you the details when we meet.) Yesterday, even he told me, in so many words: They're shooting men, shovelling them into the ground by the dozen... a bullet, that's the value of a man, the world is drowning in blood, and you expect us to stand on ceremony with you.
Another man wouldn't even trouble to speak about it—he'd just order you to bed.
I resist, Papa, I do really.... I can't bear to be just a treat after a glass of spirits.