ast--Schmidt was growing sleepy. The Count breathed
regularly and lay in his bed without moving. Then, at last, the Cossack
rose, looked at his friend once more, blew out the lamp, felt his way to
the door and left the room. As he walked home through the quiet streets he
swore that he would take vengeance upon Akulina, by producing the letter
and reading it in her husband's presence, and before the assembled
establishment, before the Count made his appearance. It was indeed not
probable that he would come at all, considering all that he had suffered,
though Schmidt knew that he generally came on Thursday morning, evidently
weary and exhausted, but unconscious of the delusion which had possessed
him during the previous day. Possibly, he was subject to a similar fit
every Wednesday night, and had kept the fact a secret. Schmidt had always
wondered what happened to him at the moment when he suddenly forgot his
imaginary fortune and returned to his everyday senses.

The morning dawned at last, and it was Thursday. As there was no necessity
for liberating the Count from arrest to-day, Akulina roused her husband
with the lark, gave him his coffee promptly and sent him off to open the
shop and catch the early customer. Before the shutters had been up more
than a quarter of an hour, and while Fischelowitz was still sniffing the
fresh morning air, Johann Schmidt appeared. His step was brisk, his brow
was dark and his boots creaked ominously. With a very brief salutation he
passed into the back shop, slipped off his coat and set to work with the
determination of a man who feels that he must do something active as a
momentary relief to his feelings.

Next came Vjera, paler than ever, with great black rings under her tired
eyes, broken with the fatigues and anxieties of the previous day, but
determined to double her work, if that were possible, in order to make up
for the money she had borrowed of Schmidt and, through him, of Dumnoff. As
she dropped her shawl, Fischelowitz caught sight of the back of her head,
and broke into a laugh.

"Why, Vjera!" he cried. "What have you done? You have made yourself look
perfectly ridiculous!"

The poor girl turned scarlet, and busied herself at her table without
answering. Her fingers trembled as she tried to handle her glass tube. The
Cossack, whose anger had not been diluted by being left to boil all night,
dropped his swivel knife and went up to Fischelowitz with a look in his
face so extr